


still mystified by things

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Disorder, Bahorel just wants to sleep, Courfeyrac loves monster-movies, Depression, Enjolras drinks a lot of coffee, Enjolras is so oblivious its not even funny, Grantaire is a talented fucker, M/M, Piningjolras, enjolras isn't very good with emotions, i love them, its just sad, repressed little fucker, sidepairings marius/courfeyrac, there is so much swearing in my fic i am very sorry everyone, they're all fuckers really, yeah all the others basically i'm not going to tag them all bc they're not the focus, you sad little fuck, Éponine is a badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back on it, a lot of things could have been avoided if Enjolras had owned up to his feelings sooner</p><p>you know, instead of being in love with Grantaire for a whole year without saying anything</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

 

Grantaire is sleeping.

Or maybe _passed out_ would be more accurate. He’s lying on his side, curled up on the sofa that Musichetta had high-jacked for the café at some point, still wearing his jacket and shoes, and full-on sleeping.

He’s barely making a sound, the almost unnoticeable rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he’s alive. His face is carefully blank, relaxed but showing neither if his dreams are pleasant or if they are unwelcome. He looks younger, this way, more vulnerable, as everyone does in their sleep. There’s no sneer or that trademark smile that isn’t quite mocking, but definitely hides some kind of secret, and there’s no slow blinking.

Also, Enjolras is staring at him like a total creep, and he’s aware that Courfeyrac has started giving him odd looks because he’s focusing all of his attention on a deeply sleeping Grantaire, but he is currently too fascinated to muster up much care of what his friend might think of this situation.

He doesn’t care much for beauty standards – he’s been told he’s pretty before, beautiful even. He’s been called photogenic and stunning and envy-inducing, as much as he’s been called ‘little girl’, in a voice that intones that that should somehow be a demeaning thing to be, called ‘too soft looking’, ‘too feminine’, and worse, more colourful words that his mind dutifully skips over, because if he dwells on them too much longer, there comes the small spike of hurt they caused at the time, followed by the anger, and while he’s learned how to deal with the anger, use it, even, he has little to point it towards right now, and he would rather leave it be.  

But no, he cares little for what people call him, and more for their intent in doing it: observation, what do they potentially want from him? And he cares even less for what people look like, aware of beauty almost in a completely abstract concept compared to what he guesses most of the world thinks.

He knows that Grantaire isn’t thought beautiful by many: he’s heard half-strangers comment that his jaw is too broad, too uneven, his hair too wild, his skin too pale and unhealthy-looking, the dark bags under his eyes unappealing, the large birthmark beside his eye an unfortunate stand-out. Enjolras remembers Jehan smashing a glass into the face of someone who got a bit too vocal trying to tell Grantaire that he better go home before he scared all the pretties away. He also remembers that Grantaire hadn’t even reacted to it, had even moved to get up before Jehan’s patience had clearly run out and they had taken matters into their own hands. So yes, people in general, don’t seem to think that Grantaire is anything worth looking at.

It’s never mattered to Enjolras: beauty is an unappealing concept for him: the drive behind it, the manipulation and power in the messages, the impossible ideals. His own looks are simply another tool to be used, a fortunate thing that means shallow people will be more likely to listen to him, and maybe in time change their minds about ridiculous concepts.

If it’s real beauty he’s talking about, all of his friends are beautiful to him, because _they’re his friends_.

He has never, however, stared at any of them quite as transfixed as he’s staring at the sleeping Grantaire right now.

“He had a rough night,” Courfeyrac finally says behind him, and Enjolras half-wonders how long Courfeyrac has been waiting to say something: if his friend has been staring at him too, calculating how best to approach the situation. “He worked a shift at that tattoo-shop his friend has just set up, and then Feuilly called him in for help at the garage, because Hannah got sick and Charles overslept. And then Mrs. H called him because Gavroche had run away again and she needed to take one of the other children to the hospital. He and Éponine’s been looking until one am before they found him.”

“Where was he?” Enjolras asks, a little worried now. Gavroche has a bad habit of running away from his foster-mother, even though he seems to like the kind Mrs. H and her horde of foster-children that all look at the older Gavroche like he’s hung the moon and stars, and while they’ve yet to find him in any more trouble than a police-officer picking a young boy from an unsafe street in the middle of the night, one can never know. One day it’s bound to go wrong.

“With me!” Courfeyrac says, smiling slightly, though with a hint of guilt. “The little fox told me he’d left a note for his sister, but I should have known better than to trust him. He insisted he accompany me down to the docks, where you’d sent me, if you might recall.”

“I’m glad he’s alright,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t until then realise that he hasn’t at any point turned to actually address Courfeyrac: his eyes are still focused on the object of his attention for the last few minutes. “Someone needs to speak with him about wandering around on his own like that.”

“Maybe you should,” Courfeyrac offers, moving to stand beside him, leaning against the table. “Lord knows I’ve tried. Grantaire as well. Éponine usually ends up yelling, and Azelma would rather not get involved – she’s too young to be parenting him anyway, it’s really not fair.”

 _We’re all too young,_ Enjolras thinks. Maybe he should talk to Gavroche. Later.

“Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a very, very important question?”

“Anything, my friend,” he promises. A lock of Grantaire’s hair has fallen from his forehead into the bridge of his nose – it’s been a while since he last got a haircut, Enjolras thinks, it’s starting to look a bit shaggy. It’s not really a bad look. Sort of goes with the heavy, dark jackets and the tattoos. He wonders if the lock of hair is annoying him, if that’s a small scrunching of Grantaire’s eyebrows he can see. Maybe he should move it away again, because Courfeyrac just told him that Grantaire had hardly gotten any sleep, and he needs sleep if he’s exhausted enough to pass out in a public place, something Enjolras knows he doesn’t like.

“Why are you currently staring at our dear Grantaire like a lovesick puppy?”

Enjolras freezes, then turns slowly to look at Courfeyrac, who looks like he’s breaking a rib or two in his urge to suppress a broad grin.

“I’m not…” Enjolras stammers out. “I mean… it’s not. I’m not staring!”

“You’ve been staring at him for seven minutes straight, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac taps his wrist-watch as if to emphasize: it’s the one Marius got him and Enjolras is pretty sure he never, ever takes it off. Ever. His friend waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Or should I say… not so straight.”

“You make my ears bleed,” Enjolras says with a theatrical sigh, stubbornly pushing his embarrassment away. “And I wasn’t… I wasn’t _staring,_ okay? He sleeps like the dead, I was merely making sure he was actually still alive.”

“You could have just gone over and checked his pulse for that.”

Enjolras can feel the heat in his face. “You mean… touch him? I’m… that’s not… that would be wildly inappropriate, Courfeyrac, not to mention an invasion of his personal space.”

Courfeyrac slowly, impossibly slowly, lifts one eyebrow. “And staring at him without blinking for a considerable amount of time isn’t?”

His friend probably isn’t expecting the panicked expression that overcomes Enjolras’ face, nor is he expecting him to reach out and grasp a hold of his arm.

“I really didn’t… please don’t tell him!” Enjolras whispers. “I’m not… god, I know that was horrible and creepy, okay, I’m really not, I really didn’t mean to…”

“Whoa, calm down!” Courfeyrac places a hand on top of the one Enjolras is currently using to cut off the circulation in his arm with. “I’m just teasing, Enjolras, yeah? It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry, please don’t panic?”

Enjolras lets go of him slowly. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his mouth feeling dry. “It’s just… I don’t want him to know.”

“That you have a small crush?” Courfeyrac frowns. “It doesn’t matter, Enjolras, people get crushes all the time. I’m sure he’d be flattered, too.”

He doesn’t look at Courfeyrac. “Right. Just. Don’t tell him?”

“I won’t say anything.” Courfeyrac is looking at him intently now, as if searching for something. “Are you…”

“Let’s drop the subject,” Enjolras mumbles, feeling a headache coming on. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to talk about how it’s been a year now, a year since he realised Grantaire mattered a hell of a lot more than he thought he did (and Grantaire was his friend, even if the friendship seemed rocky at times: Enjolras friends already meant the world). A year since his hands had started getting sweaty whenever the other man would stand too close, a year since his stomach would tie itself in knots of discontent every time Grantaire would get particularly vocal and put his ideas, his ideals down like they were unwanted weed in an otherwise magnificent garden. He’d bit it back and argued like he’d always argued, and told himself that Grantaire liked to rile him up for the fun of it, to not let it get to him, that he was well aware Grantaire’s opinion of him wasn’t the best, but that they at least shared close friendships and had worked together in the past, and that… that meant something. Even if he wasn’t exactly Grantaire’s favourite person in the world, far from it in fact. Even if he had… he had… fallen in love. With Grantaire. Quite a lot.

 Grantaire didn’t _hate_ him. That was something, at least.

“Enjolras…”

“I can’t fucking help my feelings, okay?” he snaps, and immediately regrets it, because Courfeyrac means nothing by it, and he hadn’t known how goddamn serious these foolish emotions were, at least not until now, because of course _now_ he would guess, he knows Enjolras too well not to, but he’s tired and he feels trapped, cornered, and lashing out is an old habit that still sometimes refuses to die completely. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just… it’s not… it’s not just a crush. Okay? Let’s not talk about it.”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac agrees quietly, after a moment of silence. “Yeah, sure. We can talk about something else. Or just go home? You look like you need almost as much rest as Grantaire does.”

Enjolras can’t help himself, he looks at Grantaire again, and his entire body almost bolts in shock, because he meets steely blue eyes with his own, and _fuck_ Grantaire is awake.

“He’s right,” Grantaire croaks out, his voice hoarse from sleep, and the sound of it like that makes tingles go down Enjolras’ spine in an all-too pleasant way. “You do look knackered.”

Enjolras just stares at him, in shock, in horror. How long had he been awake? How much had he _heard?!_

“I have to go,” he says and promptly turns on his heels to flee.

Being back at his flat is worse, however, because Combeferre has classes today, and the place is eerily quiet, and dark, because the weather heralds a dark day outside and the blinds are drawn. Enjolras moves to bring more light into the room, but regrets his decision immediately, because the bleak and grey sky certainly isn’t helping his mood. He turns on the light instead, and practically storms into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

He ends up making three, starting a new batch as soon as the untouched one grows cold, some part of his brain thinking that there has to be warm coffee for Combeferre when he gets home, sure.

 _Dammit_.

Okay, so he needs a smoke. He’s been trying to cut back, but yeah. It isn’t happening today. Which is why Enjolras ends up sitting on the fire-escape, smoke curling through the air, looking down at the cars driving past underneath him. It is also how Combeferre finds him, twenty minutes later.

“Are you alright?” he asks, hair catching slightly in the wind. “Are you smoking?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras does feel a hint of guilt, since Combeferre is part of the reason he’s trying to stop, the other being, well, health. But Combeferre doesn’t smoke, and it isn’t really funny to live in a flat with someone who does, then.

“Why did you make three pots of coffee?” his voice is kind, in that Combeferre-way he gets right every time.

“Four,” Enjolras corrects him, putting the cigarette out against the metal of the staircase. “I drank one.”

“An entire pot? Is that why you’re shaking?”

“It’s also cold out here,” he informs him, and Combeferre leaves to get a blanket before crawling out to sit beside him.

“Everything alright?” he asks once they’re both wrapped up, and Enjolras feels just a bit of the cold and the shaking leave him.

It’s a silly question, because obviously everything is not alright: he doesn’t like to sit on the fire-escape, it’s cold and hard to sit on, he’s cutting back on smoking but he’s just almost inhaled an entire packet, and he usually doesn’t overdose on coffee unless exams or an important rally is coming up. Or when he has to stay awake because they’re breaking into a mink-farm to check the conditions. Again.

But Combeferre asks so that Enjolras has a chance to say _no_ , and keep ignoring the problem. Combeferre asks because he’s his friend and he doesn’t want to push him.

A part of him wants to: a part of him thinks, he’s been hiding this for a year now, and he could continue doing so, _should_ continue doing so, because the more people who know, the more _real_ it will feel, and it will just hurt even more. It already hurts a lot, too much.

But now Courfeyrac knows, and if anyone is going to hold tight with the information, if anyone is going to support him through these foolish feelings that are very clearly not going away, then it’s his two best friends.

“I’m in love with Grantaire,” he says, and Combeferre almost falls off the fire-escape.

“ _Really?”_

Enjolras can’t quite stop the sullen look he throws his friend. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No! No, absolutely not. I just… really wasn’t expecting that, of all things. You’re not the type to… fall in love.”

“I know.”

“Like, _really_ not the type.”

“I know.”

Combeferre is silent for a little while, and then he smiles. “But if you had to fall in love with anyone, of course you’d fall in love with someone who argues with you as much as he does. I bet that’s why, isn’t it? Oh god, that’s your type, people who talk back to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s _not funny_!” God, not Combeferre as well.

Combeferre takes a deep breath then, maybe holding back a laugh. “No,” he says. “It’s not really, sorry. Are you sure it’s… not just crush or infatuation?”

“Three days ago he smiled at me, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since,” Enjolras says in the most deadpan voice he can muster.

“Well, okay,” Is Combeferre’s response, as if that’s all well and dandy. “How long has…?”

“A year.”

“Ah!”

“Sorry for no telling you earlier.”

“You’re not obligated to share everything with me, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Courfeyrac told us about Marius.”

“Yes, I remember Courfeyrac bursting into the flat two hours after he’d met Marius to declare that he had found the love of his life. I also remember the hundred and forty other times that has happened, so he really can’t blame us for not taking him seriously to begin with.”

Enjolras smiles now. “Do you remember when we first met Marius the next day?”

“You almost made him cry.”

“Courfeyrac was so mad at me. It really wasn’t on purpose.”

“You get a bit intense sometimes, you may have noticed. It’s especially bad for people who don’t know you yet. The rest of us have gotten used to it.”

He grows quiet, staring out over the city. “Do you remember when we first met Grantaire?”

“Yes. Jehan told us about their new tattoo, and the great guy that had made it. And then it turned out Feuilly knew him as well, from work in the garage, and Bahorel was boxing with him every other Saturday.”

“Feuilly’d been fixing his old bike for three years before it broke. That’s when Jehan met him. That’s when I met him,” Enjolras stops at Combeferre’s look and wills his blush away.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Combeferre repeats. “But… can I ask you why you haven’t done something?”

Enjolras swallows heavily past the lump in his throat. “And that something would be?”

“Something like confessing your feelings to Grantaire? Or, slightly less scary maybe, just asking him out?”

He lets out a startled laugh. “Are you for real? Combeferre… Grantaire barely likes me.”

Combeferre looks at him in confusion. “Enjolras, he would hardly come to our meetings if…”

“His best friends are possibly Jehan and Bahorel,” Enjolras interrupts. “Not to mention he’s known Feuilly for years. Joly adores him, as he adores us all. He, somehow, makes Marius feel comfortable, when none other than Courfeyrac can. Courfeyrac has too big a heart to turn anyone away, and he certainly wouldn’t turn someone like Grantaire away. Éponine and he are inseparable; Cosette and he almost like siblings at times. Bossuet wouldn’t know who to win the Olympic medal in sarcasm with if Grantaire wasn’t there. Musichetta lets him steal pens from the café, and you know how possessive she gets about those pens. And how many times has he let you help him home after a night where he could barely stand himself? No, Combeferre, Grantaire has many reasons other than me to show up at our meetings.”

“That doesn’t mean he dislikes you.”

“Have you heard him speak as harshly to anyone else, as he speaks to me?”

Combeferre looks at him sadly. “That doesn’t mean he dislikes you. I actually think he respects you a great deal, Enjolras.”

He refuses to look at his friend now, staring straight ahead instead. It’s getting very dark now.

“It is easier not to entertain the notion,” he tells him. “It’s just easier to push it away.”

Combeferre shifts slightly and leans against him. “I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he says. “And I’m not the best to give advice in this area. But I’m always here to listen, when you need to talk.”

“Thank-you, my friend.”

 

 

 

 

 

The worst part about it is that Enjolras isn’t sure if Grantaire actually _knows_ or not. And he keeps alternating: because if Grantaire knows, then surely, the worst part is over. Grantaire isn’t avoiding him, or giving him odd stares apart from the usual. He’s not seemingly uncomfortable by the whole thing, not deliberately shying away from Enjolras the few times they are in proximity to each other.

But there is also the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that Grantaire knows, and is simply hiding his discomfort. That he caught Enjolras staring earlier, that he heard what he said. That, for the last few months, he’s looked away when Enjolras catches him staring, because he doesn’t want to see the adoration Enjolras is sure shines from his face, unhindered even though the careful and neutral mask he’s worn for so many years in public. That Grantaire flees the room whenever they somehow find themselves alone together, because Enjolras advances are so unwanted that just the mere possibility of them makes the other man blanch.

In that case, Enjolras would much rather have Grantaire not know at all. It would be a kindness, if Grantaire remained oblivious, because as pathetic as he feels admitting it, he is not sure he could handle a rejection at this point in his absolutely ridiculous infatuation.

It’s been a year, and he’s come to terms with the fact that it _all of this,_ it isn’t going to go away anytime soon. He’s tried. He’s ignored it, tried to somehow talk himself out of feeling like this, because if he can convince hundreds of people, even for just a moment, that what he’s saying is just and fair and _right_ , then surely he can convince himself that he’s not really in love with the deviant artist that seems to come to their meetings mainly for the alcohol and the laughs.

Then again, he’s never managed to convince said deviant of anything either, so maybe it makes sense after all. A sort of poetic irony.

Ignoring Grantaire hadn’t worked, that had just hurt, because every second he did it, he was painfully aware of the _why_ and what was he even doing, was he being too blatant, would Grantaire maybe feel excluded from the group, would he _leave_. That one really hadn’t worked. Burying himself in his work hadn’t done the trick. Lying to himself, pushing his emotions back, it hadn’t eradicated them.

It was fine. He could deal with it. He’d been dealing with it for a good while now, after all. He’d learned how to drag back the responses he would be making to Grantaire before this entire mess had happened, and it was… surprisingly easy, to stay in character throughout the day. He’s merely putting on an old mask, because the alternative would be cutting out Grantaire completely, and the thought of that leaves him with a dry mouth and a dizzy feeling swooping through his body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Its two days after that, that Grantaire shows up with his left eye blackened and a large bruise on his chin, and the pen Enjolras is holding snaps in two between his clenched fingers.

“What happened?!” he practically yells in worry, and fury because _someone did this to Grantaire_ , _someone hurt him,_ before anyone else can open their mouths, and the man in question blinks in surprise and takes an almost involuntary step back.

There are a few seconds of brief, awkward silence in where all Enjolras can see is Grantaire, suddenly awake on the sofa, and the dreadful feeling of not knowing how much he’d heard, how much he _knew_ , but it passes when Bahorel comes laughing up to them and throws a large arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, making him grimace in pain as he jostles him, though it is quickly replaced by a fond smile _(and Enjolras isn’t jealous, Bahorel is a friend to both of them, and he’s probably deserved having smiles like that thrown at him, he’s known Grantaire for long, they share a lot, Enjolras is not jealous, not even a little bit)._

“I did!” Bahorel answers his question from earlier, and then gleefully points to the large bruising and swelling by his own eyes, spanning the bridge of his nose. “And he repaid in kind!”

“Please tell me this was at some kind of event, and you didn’t just start wailing on each other on the street?” Combeferre asks, the unspoken _again_ hanging in the air, even more disapproving that his tone.

Jehan chooses that moment to enter, limping slightly. “It was sort of my fault,” they admit, smiling widely at Joly as he offers them his cane. “Thank-you.”

Combeferre throws them an exasperated look, though it is softened by a slight smile on his lips, before he turns back to the table and the map they’d been drawing up. Enjolras stares a little longer, until Grantaire gives him another odd look before sitting down next to Bossuet, making Enjolras realise that he’s just been caught staring _again._

He’d blush and duck his head, but then he realises that maybe Grantaire’s look is one more of discomfort than hurt, that maybe Grantaire _knows_ why he’s being stared at and, as Enjolras had feared, absolutely hates the thought – it’s like his stomach fills with lead, and he’s sure he’s grown pale instead of red: he turns around quickly again, letting the ruined pencil drop out of his hand.

“Any splinters?” Combeferre asks him quietly: thank the heavens that he has the sense not to ask _why_ , at least not here. Or maybe it’s because he can guess. Either way, he doesn’t mean to pry.

“I think I’m fine,” he answers, maybe a bit too quickly. “I just… I got a bit…”

“Worried?”

“Was it very obvious?”

Combeferre’s eyes grow large as he stares at him. “Oh _no,_ not at all.”

“Really?” Enjolras slips out, before narrowing his eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

Combeferre ducks his head, possibly so that Enjolras can’t see him laughing, _the smug bastard_. “I would never.”

“You are. You’re making fun of my pain.”

His friend reaches out to pat him lightly on the shoulder, and doesn’t comment on it when Enjolras keeps glancing back at Grantaire every few minutes, just to check that he’s still alright. At least twice Grantaire catches his look, and he quickly drops his head back down again, but the third time he stares back and swallows heavily.

Grantaire is, if he’s seeing things right, staring at him like he’s trying to figure something out. Enjolras ends up giving him a slight half-wave from the other end of the room, and immediately feels like the biggest fool to have ever made a foolish gesture towards their silly crush. He can feel his ears getting warm as his skin burns in embarrassment.

Grantaire only waves back though, eyebrows raised slightly in bemusement. The light is falling so it almost makes it look like there’s red blooming high on his cheekbones, but Enjolras knows that can’t be right. Grantaire drops his gaze first this time, and Enjolras feels pleased and disappointed at the same time. It’s discontenting. It’s brilliant.

He realises that he really wants Grantaire to keep looking at him, or just keep paying attention to him, and he _really_ needs to get a keeper or an intervention or something, this is getting out of hand.

It’s just difficult when the object of your affections seems, for the most, to merely tolerate your presence in favour of the friends they have in common.

Enjolras has to remind himself that Grantaire doesn’t _hate_ him: find his ideas ridiculous, at times, yes (and Enjolras still places enough of his own worth on his ideals and causes to know that, that thought still stings a lot), finds him tiresome at best, but he doesn’t _hate_ him. He actually thinks, for all that Grantaire sneers at the world, he doesn’t really hate anyone.

He’s too kind for that, too clever, even: Enjolras has seen him hold Cosette when she cried, has seen him carry Bossuet up stairs when his leg had been broken, seen him with Combeferre’s infant niece, the worry that he might drop the child soon turning to delight at the noises she made when he made faces at her. Grantaire wasn’t even half as hateful as he liked to deem himself – Enjolras knew.

“You’re swooning,” Combeferre tells him, and Enjolras realises he’s still staring at Grantaire’s back where the man has turned to talk to Joly: he blushes and looks away again.

“It’s not on purpose,” he tells Combeferre quietly: his friend looks at him, something like worry in his eyes.

“No, I really don’t think it is.”

Enjolras isn’t completely sure what that’s supposed to mean, but the sentence leaves him with an unsettled feeling, that lasts throughout the day: it still has not left when he finds himself at the library, doing some really, really late school-work.

It’s not that Enjolras doesn’t take school seriously, it’s just that, well, there isn’t much in the ridiculous system to take seriously, when half the curriculum is extremely flawed and the other half badly taught by incompetent teachers who have become sadistic after a while, and chose to take their tendencies out on poor, unsuspecting students. Not to mention how uncomfortable all the chairs were, in seemingly every university from here to the North Pole.

What he doesn’t expect is to look up from his textbook and see Grantaire standing right in front of him.

“Oh.”

“Hello.”

“Hi!” Enjolras is sure he’s blushing. Again. God, he’s doing that a lot these days. “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire lifts an eyebrow. “Just because I dropped out of university, doesn’t mean the library is off-limits, you know.”

He is definitely blushing now. “No, of course it isn’t, that’s not what I meant, god, no, not at all…”

“Tt’s fine,” Grantaire waves his hand in a placating manner, but he looks tense and he shifts awkwardly from one foot to another now. “I was just teasing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with dropping out!”

“I know.”

“And of course you can be at the library!”

“Sure.”

“Whenever you want!”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire still looks tense, but there is laughter in his voice now. “I _know_.”

“Right, right, of course,” his face is burning, and he still feels mortified. “I was just…” _Get a grip, Enjolras!_ He clears his throat. “I was just wondering what you were doing here?”

Grantaire makes a sweeping gesture towards the room at large. “Looking at books.”

“Right,” oh god, another silly question. “Of course.”

Now Grantaire’s smile turns soft. “And I’m picking up Jehan.”

“Jehan is here?”

“Yeah, looking for some Maya Angelou, I think. Or Luis Gama, whatever strikes fancy in the moment.”

“Ah,” Enjolras mutters: he hadn’t seen either of them, but then again, the library is fairly big, and the poetry-section a bit removed from the study-tables he’s chosen to inhabit for the next few hours. “Gama is very good.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rise in surprise now, but some of the tension seems to leave his shoulder, and it makes something inside Enjolras loosen as well. “I didn’t know you were much for poetry. Though, if anyone, of course you’d like Gama.”

“It’s hard not to become interested in poetry when you’re friends with Jehan.”

“True,” Grantaire agrees, and moves closer, stuffing his hands in his pocket, as if he’s not sure what else to do with them. Enjolras follows the movement, and his eyes linger at his hips, Grantaire’s jeans hanging there in a nearly perfect fit. “I still prefer Blake, though.”

Enjolras tilts his head to the side. “And how does Jehan feel about that?”

Grantaire’s laugh makes the butterflies in his stomach flutter happily. “Jehan’s not sure whether to strangle me or let me blabber on. I did get them to admit that he wasn’t completely overrated. At times.”

“I’m pretty sure I blanked out completely during the classes we had on him,” Enjolras admits as Grantaire sits down on the vacant chair opposite him: there’s a table between them, and it’s both too far away, and not enough of a barrier. If Grantaire is not so close, at least he might not _see_.   

“I figured it wasn’t really a subject of interest,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras has to swallow heavily as he thinks, _it could be. It could be, for you._

Enjolras shrugs and closes the books he’d been busy scribbling notes in. “Lots of other things to focus on, especially for someone who doesn’t have a talent for poetry. I’ll leave Jehan to that.”

“Hmm, Jehan and Courfeyrac if the poems he wrote for Marius is anything to go by,” Grantaire giggles. “Though Jehan would be affronted if they heard me call that ‘poetry’.”

It’s Enjolras’ turn to let out a surprised laugh. “You know, he never showed those to me, even though I begged and coerced for days on end! Marius still blushes every time we mention it.”

Grantaire, Enjolras thinks then, looks absolutely mesmerising when he laughs – he’s in public, in a place to be quiet, and he’s clearly trying to hold himself back. All of the awkwardness from earlier hasn’t left him either, and it isn’t actually until now that Enjolras realises he has never really seen Grantaire at such ease around him: that they are hardly just the two of them, and the few times they are, its shouting or them ignoring each other – or, rather, Grantaire ignoring Enjolras, and Enjolras doing his best to ignore someone he’s desperately in love with being just a few inches away.

It’s never been them joking about poetry and their friend’s quirks and habits: he’s never made Grantaire laugh like this, muffled by his hands, shoulders shaking. The tattoo running down his arm flexes with his muscles as he raises it, and Enjolras wants to run his lips along the lines and curves of it.

Ah, shit, thoughts like that are very much _not_ productive. He looks down quickly, and Grantaire stops laughing abruptly.

“I should probably…” he motions as if to leave, and Enjolras feels his heart sink in his chest.

“You were picking up Jehan,” Enjolras nods, because of course Grantaire wasn’t here for him, they didn’t come here together, hadn’t planned to sit in the library and share laughter like this. Grantaire was here for someone else entirely, as he always was.

But then Grantaire _smiles_ at him as he gets up from his seat, and its blinding in its intensity, because Enjolras is completely sure Grantaire has _never_ smiled at him like this before. “I’ll see you later?”

Enjolras makes a sound that is probably a _yes_ or a _sure,_ but really he’s too incoherent to vocalise anything that sounds like a language known to man: Grantaire seems to accept it though, because he nods and then leaves quickly to find Jehan.

Enjolras doesn’t get much more reading done that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why are we here again?”

“I wanted to see this movie,” Courfeyrac’s eyes are large and round. “And you all promised to come with me!”

“And Combeferre wasn’t enough?”

Combeferre shrugs. “Hey, don’t look at me. Courfeyrac was insistent that as many of us come as possible.”

“It’s a silly monster-movie,” Grantaire’s voice comes from behind Enjolras, and it’s like a lightning-strike, because _no-one told him Grantaire was going to be here_.

“Watching silly monster-movies should be mandatory for us all,” Courfeyrac tells him gravely. “Or at least everyone who didn’t have work or classes in the morning. Is everyone here?”

Bahorel grunts as a reply, looking like he’s dead on his feet, and Éponine looks up from her texting to roll her eyes at him.

“If you didn’t want to come, you shouldn’t have,” she tells him, though she also looks to Enjolras when she says it. “And to be honest, only the weak wants to miss a good monster-movie!”

“Heard!” Courfeyrac cries out, and fist-bumps the girl: Enjolras wants to hit his head against a wall.

“Courfeyrac didn’t leave much choice I’m afraid,” Grantaire says. “It was ‘come to this movie with me or die.’”

Courfeyrac’s face falls half in shadows. “I can be very persuasive.”

“Scary,” Bahorel mutters, and looks like he’s about to drop dead from exhaustion. He also falls asleep five minutes into the movie, despite having already inhaled half his Pepsi, and Éponine throws popcorn down his shirt when he snores lightly.

Of course, Enjolras hardly notices this, because somehow – possibly because of Courfeyrac and his machinations – he ends up sitting with Combeferre on his left and Grantaire on his right, the current object of his attention very engrossed in the display on the screen, and Enjolras very engrossed in watching the reflection of it play out in Grantaire’s eyes, as much as he can in the darkness of the cinema.

He isn’t sure if he hates or absolutely loves Courfeyrac right now. He doesn’t even know what the movie is about (monsters, that’s all, oh look, there’s a monster there now, eating people), he’s too busy looking at Grantaire, trying to make out the features of a smile in the dark, and he’s reached out to touch his hand by the armrest before he even knows what he’s doing.

Grantaire jolts in surprise and shock, and knocks over his soda, effectively spilling it all over his own lap, and cursing in surprise. Enjolras sits mortified, until Grantaire starts to laugh, and then apologises when there are annoyed comments from the other movie-goers: he gets up awkwardly and quickly scuffles out, Enjolras following without even thinking about it.

The lights in the lobby of the cinema are bright in contrast to the darkness of the other room, but luckily Grantaire is still laughing, even as Éponine appears in the door as well, and bursts into laughter as soon as she sees him.

“What did you _do_?”

“It was my fault,” Enjolras hastily says.

“Nah, its fine,” Grantaire’s laughing again, but there is also red high on his cheeks, and damn if it doesn’t look adorable.

He realises he’s just thought the word _adorable_ in a genuine, affectionate manner, and isn’t sure if he would rather choke on a popcorn now or just let the shame do away with him slowly.

“Nothing like a lap full of soda to lighten the mood,” Éponine laughs: the smile immediately drops from her face as soon as Grantaire has entered the bathroom, and is out of sight: she turns to glare at Enjolras instead.

“What exactly are you on about?”

“Excuse me?”

She folds her arms over her chest and leans back against the wall: a seemingly relaxed, if slightly defensive posture, but to Enjolras it looks more like a tiger ready to pounce at any moment.

“What,” she repeats, her voice low and dangerous. “Is it, _exactly_ , you think you’re doing acting all up around Grantaire like this?”

Enjolras startles and _fuck_ , someone had noticed, someone apart from the two people in the world that knew him best had _seen_ and surely if it was obvious to everyone, Grantaire _definitely_ knew.

“I don’t…” the objections and denials comes instinctively. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you two can’t agree on anything,” Éponine continues, apparently hardly even listening to him. “I know that you like to rile each other up like you get paid for it, and that he’s probably more a hindrance than a help to your causes, or whatever it is you sit and fiddle around with, but please remember that he’s actually a person? And I mean, by all means, fucking tell him when he crosses your limits, but try not to go… all _you_ , on him.”

Enjolras feels dizzy, the sickly sweet smell of popcorn and soda and candy suddenly too intense for him. “All… me.”

“He barks like an angry dog, but there’s not actually much bite to it. Or at least not intended bite. Could you just… talk to him? If you have a problem?”

_Talk to him??_

“I… there is no problem,” Enjolras says, and tries to convince himself that its not a lie, _its not a problem_ , he can handle it.

His brain is going into overdrive wondering if Éponine is acting like this not just because she’s noticed what she deems his odd behaviour, but because Grantaire had said something to her, had noticed it too, noticed it enough to mention it, because Enjolras knows that Grantaire’s default assumption is that people don’t really like him and… oh.

_Oh._

“I don’t have a problem with Grantaire,” he says, the conviction in his voice back now. “At all.”

Éponine’s eyes are still narrowed, but after another beat, she nods and apparently decides to let him off the hook.

“Stop acting so damn weird,” she tells him, before turning around and marching into the men’s room to check up on Grantaire (or possibly just to embarrass a peeing stranger, one can never be sure with her).

He feels floored, and all he can do is walk back into the theatre, plonking down on his (thankfully dry) seat and ignoring Combeferre’s hushed whispers as to what happened, Courfeyrac’s shushing and Bahorel’s snoring: he’s too lost in his own mind to notice any of it, to be honest, even the loud and flashing movie on the big screen in front of him: he gets a flash of an alien getting thrown through several buildings and feels very sympathetic.

If Grantaire thought Enjolras scrutiny of him was because of dislike, it changed a lot of things. Not that Enjolras could be sure – and certainly not enough to give him any hope. All it really gave him was a bad taste in his mouth and a dull throbbing somewhere left of his ribcage: he was pretty sure he could handle Grantaire disliking him, but in a case where the other man was more indifferent or maybe only indifferent because he thought _Enjolras_ disliked him…

He didn’t even want to think about it. Which of course meant he couldn’t stop. He was still thinking about it when the movie ended, and Courfeyrac was ranting on and on about how great it was to Bahorel, who somehow joined in on the conversation with great enthusiasm, and seemed to have completely gotten the hang of the plot, despite being asleep for around 80% of the movie, and he was distracted enough to not hear Combeferre’s question, before his friend grabbed hold of his arm to halt his walk.

“Enjolras!”

“Yes, sorry!” he stopped himself just short of actually shaking his head to clear it. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Ponine took Grantaire home to get changed, and then they met up with Cosette and Jehan at the bar, and now she’s asking if we’re coming too? She wants a recap of the movie, apparently, since she missed it.”

“Yeah, sure, sure,” he had planned to study tonight, but that is really not a priority: he’d most likely just have gotten home and ended up smoking on the fire-escape for four hours again, with no Combeferre there to bring him blankets and be sensible. Damn, but he was turning into a mess – it really wasn’t fair, he thought, following the others down the path towards the bar. He’d lived for a year, a _fucking whole year_ , with this and it had been painful and hurtful, but now it seemed a near constant, like a headache he couldn’t battle, except not quite as unpleasant, and maybe it was because the secret was out now: it wasn’t just him, sitting here with thoughts and worries, Combeferre knew and Courfeyrac knew, and Éponine had brought up something along the lines as well, even if she had the wrong end of the stick, and it made him feel like he had to revaluate everything about this situation. If he was hurting Grantaire, if Grantaire knew, what it meant if he didn’t, what it meant if he _did._ Maybe he’d had enough as well: his feelings clearly weren’t just going to go away if he kept going on like this. Wasn’t there some clever advice on resolving things, getting closure? Courfeyrac had ranted about it, he was sure.

It didn’t really help, because Enjolras didn’t feel like he had any idea of what that actually entailed: he was just as completely lost as he had been earlier in the evening, and it didn’t help that his brain had apparently completely forgotten to register the fact that Grantaire _would be at the bar_ as well, and the damn man just had to throw his head back and laugh like his life depended on it just as Enjolras entered through the door.

It wasn’t even that big of a laugh: it was barely audible over the noise and music of the place, but it was Grantaire and he looked so happy, and Enjolras immediately felt tingly and giddy himself.

He really wanted to punch himself in the face at this point.

Courfeyrac didn’t help either, because Enjolras was almost completely sure that it was yet again his fault, that he ended up sitting next to Grantaire again, the other man giving him a smile before quickly looking away again, saying something to Jehan: Enjolras didn’t even hear what it was – while still kind of murky and dark, the light in the bar was much brighter than in the cinema, and he was close enough to see the contours of Grantaire’s black as night curls, dark-brown shades appearing when the lights from the lamps hit it just right: the textures looked soft, and Enjolras was pretty sure he wanted nothing more than to bury his hands in it.

Whoever had first said that talking about your feelings was a good idea, was a complete ass and also a big liar or possibly just in denial. All it had clearly done was get those feelings to the very forefront of Enjolras mind, and not just be present in an opportune moment when Grantaire would display his talent for eloquence or would suddenly do a backflip or say something particularly witty or surprisingly caring, but _all the time_ , even when he wasn’t around him, even when he was in a situation as far removed from Grantaire as possible.

He was thinking about Grantaire constantly now, and it was driving him to the brink.

“I want a new tattoo,” Jehan’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “But I’m not sure about what it should look like, or the size, even.”

“Guillermo did mine,” Grantaire says, raising his arm where the large tail curls: Enjolras very pointedly looks away, and in the meantime also pretends not to notice Éponine giving him a searching look. “I designed it myself, but it’s pretty hard to do your own tattoo on the back.”

“I haven’t actually seen it,” Courfeyrac suddenly pipes in, and Enjolras frowns, because he’s pretty sure Courfeyrac has actually seen Grantaire’s tattoo, he’d been the one to tell Enjolras about it when Grantaire first got it, and Enjolras remembers shrugging and not paying that much attention except to note where he’d gotten it done, because tattoos were nice and he’d been considering having one, because that had been before _this_ and Grantaire had just been a friend in the background, someone who made a lot of noise and made counter-arguments to make Enjolras blue in the face but also made him better at debating, and oh god now Courfeyrac is asking to see the tattoo, and _Grantaire is taking his shirt off, fuck_!

Enjolras finds himself panicking and wondering if this was even legal, as Grantaire pulls his white t-shirt over his head, revealing the large gargoyle covering the expanses of his back, tail curving all the way up and over his shoulder to mark his right arm. It’s a frightening image, the creature’s face contorted, fangs clearly visible, but upon looking closer the details in the lines and shadows are so well-done that it appears beautiful, the attention and care taken into it like a whole new world of its own. It must have taken hours. It must have hurt a lot.

“It’s beautiful,” he blurts out, and it isn’t even an accident, because he suddenly desperately wants Grantaire to know that the tattoo fits him like he was always meant to have it, that it looks great, cool, hot, lovely, and fuck, Enjolras has words and he can fucking use them, he’s actually known for being good at it, so he can give Grantaire a compliment.

Grantaire doesn’t think so, if the shocked look he gives him is any indication, and Enjolras feels something inside him practically wilt (something like happiness), but then Grantaire blinks the confusion away and gives him a smile that’s almost shy.

“Thanks,” he grins, and Enjolras can feel his heart melting into a puddle in his chest: he feels vaguely regretful when Grantaire hastily puts his t-shirt back on, but also decidedly more clear-headed, so there’s that too.

“You made the design for it?” he asks, even though Grantaire had just said so. He just nods though, looking a bit sheepish, and Enjolras aches to tell him that it’s _amazing_ , what he can do, he shouldn’t be shy or even modest about it, there’s no need.

“It changed a lot, and the tail wasn’t there at first,” he says. “But I knew I wanted it really big, and the most ideal place for that was my back, so it would have to be obscured a lot of the time since I don’t really make a habit of walking around without a shirt. I’m a bit sad I decided on ending the tail at the elbow though, I think now I’d want it to reach all the way down to my wrist. I guess I could get another tattoo there though.”

“You could get a bracelet of leaves,” Enjolras says. “Jehan drew several for me when I was thinking of getting one.”

Grantaire looks astonished yet again. “You wanted a tattoo?”

He grins. “Still do. Just haven’t gotten around to it. I keep chickening out.”

“He’s afraid of needles,” Combeferre pipes in, apparently a bit tipsy: he grins widely at Enjolras when he’s met with a glare, and Courfeyrac looks like he’s almost breaking a rib trying not to laugh at them. When Enjolras turns back to Grantaire he finds him grinning widely as well.

“It’s just about finding the right one to do it,” he says. “Someone you trust, and who knows what they’re doing.”

“What about you?” this time he does blurt it out, brain only catching up with his words after the fact, and _fuck_ , if he thought Grantaire had looked shocked before it was nothing compared to now.

“What?”

Well, in for a penny.

“You work at a tattoo-parlour, don’t you?” Enjolras can’t decide if he wants to move closer to Grantaire or put more space between them. “You did Jehan’s tattoos. And Bahorel’s, and you designed the one Cosette got for her birthday last year.”

“Some of them,” Grantaire pipes up. “And designing isn’t the same as actually doing the poking and ink-bit.”

Bahorel snorts. “’Poking and ink’”

Éponine makes a half-crude joke that makes the others descent into incessant giggling, but Enjolras ignores them completely in favour of Grantaire.

“But you have done it before.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’d pay you, I’d just be another costumer.”

“It isn’t about that!”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Then what is it about?”

He gapes at him. “I’m not… I don’t… you just said you’ve wanted a tattoo for a while, but you clearly haven’t gotten it done because you’re nervous about it, and it should be the right person that does it!”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees: his mouth feels dry. Is he revealing too much? But this is… he wants this. If anyone is going to do this, it should be Grantaire, definitely Grantaire.

“I’m not the right person!” Grantaire is practically yelling, and it stops the laughter around them immediately. It’s like a punch to the face, and Enjolras just stops himself short of flinching.

“I didn’t…”

“I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

Jehan barely has time to move so Grantaire can get past, as he quickly stands up and practically flees the bar. Enjolras sits in confusing, feeling like he’s just been punched.

Éponine’s glare almost burns a hole in his head.

“What the hell did you say to him?!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Grantaire. Pick up your damn phone or I’ll make you regret being born.”_

_“Hey, Grantaire, it’s Joly. ‘Ponine said she couldn’t get a hold of you, so I’m trying. Um, please pick up the phone? I’ll ask Bossuet to try later, if you don’t call back.”_

_“So, I’m not one to judge considering that my battery runs dead about three times a day, and when it doesn’t I drop it into the toilet or a canyon or the ocean, but maybe pick up your phone if it isn’t? Gavroche is starting to talk about alligators that eat unsuspecting citizens down in the sewers, and its making Jehan’s imagination run wild. You know how it gets when Jehan’s imagination runs wild.”_

_“The boys already called you, but I know you might see their id and not answer it because everyone will be all fretting. If you want to just talk, I’ll be discreet, I’ll shoo them out instead of hovering around the phone. Or just text. We just want to know you’re alright. Um. Musichetta out.”_

_“It’s Bahorel. Pick up the phone, man. Please.”_

_“Grantaire? It’s Marius. You’ve been gone a while now, and we kind of don’t want to alert the police, but we also kind of have to, because it’s been more than 24 hours and no-one’s heard from you not even your boss even though she said you didn’t have work until Wednesday, and Courfeyrac is pacing back and forth right now convinced you’ve been kidnapped or something, so I should actually go calm him down, but I hope you’re alright.”_

_“Grantaire. I just wanted to say sorry if I did something to offend you. It really wasn’t my intent. We don’t have to talk about it more if you don’t want to. Of course. Uh. Yeah. Goodbye.”_

_“Fuck,… Enjolras, is that seriously your voicemail? You sound like a robot. Ack, fuck, no sorry, ah, fuck I’m so sorry, I’m not really… I’m kind of swaying. I know I’m a fucking fuckcanoe who just ran out the other night. I’m really fucking sorry. I completely overreacted. I was such a fuckcanoe. Is that a real word, fuckcanoe? It describes me pretty well. Anyway, I’m just really fucking sorry, it was shitty of me to react like that when you were being all nice to me, it’s just, yeah, no, sorry, I don’t even have an excuse, I’m a fucking mess.”_

The hitch in Grantaire’s breath is what really wakes Enjolras up and alerts him to the fact that this is _not_ a dream, and he’s shot up from his sprawl on the couch and is grasping for his phone in a matter of seconds.

“Grantaire?” he breathes, pressing the reply-button and clutching the phone so hard it’s sure to break. There’s a whoosh at the other end and a low muttered _fuck._

“Fuck,” Grantaire repeats. “Fuck, um. You’re awake. No, you were asleep, you sound all groggy and cuddly. I mean. I’m so sorry I woke you, fuck, I’m such a fucking bastard, like an A level bastard, not even just an occasional bastard, I’m actually a bastard on Plane 12, which is the highest state of being, except its only for douchebags and fuckcanoes and bastards, and…”

“Grantaire, slow down,” Enjolras interrupts, angry at the self-loathing evident on the other end of the conversation. “I was waiting for a call, it doesn’t matter.”

“What call? No, sorry, none of my business.”

“I was waiting for you to call!” Enjolras says, even though it isn’t completely true: he hadn’t expected Grantaire to call him, but had been waiting for one of the others to do it, with news of his whereabouts and health.

There’s silence on the other line for a long while, and then there’s a sound as if Grantaire is kicking something metal and hollow: it flies into the distance away from him, and he sighs again.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, and sounds like he means it. “I just… I get like this, sometimes. Or a lot of the time, actually. It’s usually just easier to hide.”

“Was it my fault that it wasn’t… easy to hide, this time?” Enjolras forces himself to ask, and he forces himself to remain calm. He needs to know this: if he really is a problem to Grantaire, he needs to fucking know it.

“No,” Grantaire says, too quickly.

“Please tell me.”

“It wasn’t!” he sounds angry now. “It’s not your fault, Enjolras, it’s not yours or Éponine’s or Jehan’s or Feuilly’s or any of the others, it’s _my fault_ , why don’t you see that? I’m the fucking mess here, and I’m not going to let you take responsibility for the fucked up decisions I make. Look, I know I’m a trash friend who fucking goes off the radar for forty hours and lets you all think the worst, and that’s not okay, but that means it’s my problem and my fault, and you’re not… fuck, _you_ of all people are not supposed to feel guilty!”

“What do you mean ‘me’ of all people?” Enjolras asks, and his voice is sharp and cutting, but he can’t help it: he feels cold inside, like ice is running through his veins instead of the fire that usually accompanies the sound of Grantaire’s voice.

Grantaire breathes heavily on the other end. “Nothing. Forget I said it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does!” hours of worry and fear come climbing back up, pushed along by the anger bubbling in his throat and veins now. “ _Fuck_ , Grantaire, you can’t fucking say you don’t blame me and then go ahead and fucking blame me!”

“I’m not!”

“You’re making me fucking feel like it!”

Grantaire’s breath hitches like he’s crying, and Enjolras feels like he’s falling to pieces, the anger giving way to a headache and a feeling of despair instead.

“R, please…”

“Are you at home?”

“What?”

“At your flat, are you at your flat?”

“Yes?”

“I’m in the hallway.”

Enjolras lets out a curse and throws the phone away from him, running to the door: he meets Grantaire half-way up the last set of stairs, a large purple bruise on his cheek and blood on his knuckles. He’s wearing different clothes from when they last saw him, so he must have been home to change: he looks warm at least, like he’s dressed for the weather and not about to die of pneumonia: Enjolras has pulled him into a tight hug before he can even say hello.

“Sorry,” Grantaire whispers into his collar-bone, and Enjolras cards his fingers through those silly curls and presses him even closer.

“It’s okay,” he tells him, even though it really isn’t, because Grantaire could have been hurt, and he needs to never do that again, needs to tell at least one of them that he’s safe and not lying dead in a ditch, but right now he _isn’t_ , he’s here with Enjolras, letting Enjolras _hold him_ , and that part is definitely okay. He’d feel guilty about taking advantage of the situation just in order to have Grantaire close, but Grantaire is clinging to him juts as fiercely, and he can’t bring himself to let go.

Grantaire is whispering something he can’t hear, and he wants to ask him to speak up, wants to share any secret with him, but instead he just (regretfully) loosens his hold a bit and leads him up to the flat: his hands automatically reaches down to grasp hold of Grantaire, his heart skipping a beat when he realises the other man had already reached for him as well. His palm is warm and his hand feels heavy, and his grip is strong and achingly familiar even though Enjolras knows they’ve never held hands before. He’d remember the feeling.

“Is Combeferre home?” Grantaire asks when Enjolras closes the door behind them, and let’s go of his hand again, immediately missing the feeling, but worrying about the awkwardness should he continue his grip.

“No, he’s staying at Feuilly’s tonight,” Enjolras doesn’t mention how he’d wanted to be alone, and how Combeferre hadn’t wanted to leave exactly because of that, but had been persuaded to do so anyway. “Can I… um, can I text the others? To say that you’re okay?”

Grantaire freezes in the middle of taking his scarf off, but then nods shakily, and mutters another _‘sorry’_. Enjolras sends a quick text to Éponine, Joly, Marius and Combeferre that Grantaire is fine, and knows they’ll inform the others and wait until morning to jump the other man.

“I don’t want to presume,” Grantaire is saying then. “But I’d… I’m not sure I can go back home to Éponine right now.” He’s still shaking a bit, and Enjolras has to physically stop himself from reaching out for him again.

“It’s fine,” he says. “You can stay as long as you feel like.”

“I needed to apologise to you anyway.”

“No, you don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire rights himself up a bit, his voice gaining some conviction. “I do. I’ve been acting shitty, and I probably made you feel like it was your fault, and that was awful of me. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a bother, okay? I know it’s useless and just hollow words, because I’ve always been like this and I’m always going to be, but I really _am_ sorry,” his eyes flicker back and forth now, searching almost desperately for words. “I just… in the moment I don’t really think it matters if I just walk away, and even if I can see you’ve all called me and keep calling, and even though, logically I know you’re worried and… I still don’t think it really matters. I’m fucking sorry. I really am. I’m selfish, and I get caught up in my own emotions, and its no-one’s fault but me.” He grins at Enjolras then, weakly. “I guess that’s why you’ve never really liked me.”

Having it confirmed is worse than he’d imagined: it’s not a punch to the gut or even the face, it’s a giant hitting him in the back with a sledgehammer, digging in until it can reach the heart, and Enjolras thinks he must be shaking now as well, with fear and worry and anger at himself.

He wants to yell and scream, wants to tell Grantaire that this can’t be true, that he must have been obvious, that he’s so sorry, that he should have told him. He wants to tell Grantaire that he’s beautiful when he laughs, and Enjolras doesn’t even believe in the concept of societal beauty, but there it is. He wants to tell Grantaire that he’s sappy, and possibly also creepy enough to want to watch him when he sleeps, wants to be _allowed_ to do that, because the creepy behaviour is creeping him out as well, wants to get permission to always hug Grantaire like he’d hugged him in the hallway, wants to be the one to unwind that scarf around his neck and slide the jacket off his shoulders, wants to be the one he curls up next to when he feels like this, and Enjolras probably won’t be able to say or do anything to make him feel better, but at least he’ll be _there_ , for anything Grantaire might need.

He wants to tell him, but he can’t.

“Do you want tea?” he asks instead, and Grantaire nods and says yes, and follows him into the kitchen to sit down at the opposite side of the table. Enjolras does his best not to be distracted as he finds more cups and puts away the gallons of coffee he’s made, which is nothing compared to the actual quantity he’d made in order to stay awake should someone call him: not that it had done a lot of good in the end, though Enjolras thanks the stars he didn’t miss the call at least.

He searches for words, but doesn’t find any: he makes the tea in absolute silence, and when it’s done and he finally gathers his courage to turn back around, Grantaire is fast asleep leaning against the wall.

Enjolras stands stunned for a little while, until he realises that yeah, okay, Grantaire was probably tired, and maybe in a relatively safe place for the first time in two days, and he must have been absolutely exhausted, and he already knows that Grantaire can sleep anywhere if he’s tired enough. Feeling slightly foolish, he puts the cups carefully down on the table, happy when Grantaire doesn’t stir: he doesn’t want to wake him, and he isn’t sure why.

He probably should too: the position looks uncomfortable, and Enjolras certainly isn’t going to let Grantaire sleep there for the rest of the night. He’s going to have to wake him up either way. But he still doesn’t move.

“I like you, you know,” he says, quietly. _I love you._

Grantaire doesn’t react, doesn’t stir. He’s asleep, and he’s _here_ , but he can’t hear Enjolras, and it’s the only time he’s ever felt enough courage to say something remotely like the truth of his feelings.

That’s what it boils down to, in the end: for all of his proclaimed bravery, he’s a coward in this. He’s too scared of rejection, too scared of Grantaire looking at him with pity, too scared to know for sure that Grantaire really doesn’t like him back. Too scared to say his feelings and get a no, and that’ll be the end of it.

It happens all the time, he tries to tell himself. People fall in love and never say. It’s okay to be scared.

It’s okay.

“Grantaire,” he says, walking over and gently shaking his shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

Grantaire grumbles something incoherent under his breath, eyes fluttering open slowly. He looks up at Enjolras in confusion and something that suddenly steals his breath away: Grantaire’s eyes are wide and his lips are slightly parted, and Enjolras hand is halfway lifted because he wants to run his thumb along the soft skin there, but then he remembers that he can’t just do that, that’s not his place to do, he doesn’t get to just touch Grantaire like that, and he quickly drops his hand again, removing the one still on his shoulder as well, quick as if he’d been burned. Grantaire frowns, the look of earlier falling away: much as it had unsettled Enjolras, he finds he misses it still.

“You need to get some sleep,” Enjolras says, finding his voice somehow.

Grantaire makes a noise like an annoyed bear. “I was sleeping,” he says, voice groggy. Enjolras can’t stop the smile spreading on his face.

“Yeah, but in a place where your back won’t kill you in the morning maybe. Come with me?” he has to curl his hands into loose fists in order not to reach out for Grantaire, to hold his hand again like they’d done on the stairs: he wants their hands to be tied together, he thinks, wants Grantaire’s fingers always intertwined with his, because he thinks he’d never felt so warm in his life as when Grantaire had allowed him to hold his hand out there.

“I’ll crash on the couch,” Grantaire mutters, standing up slowly: Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s because he’s so tired, or if Grantaire is still shaking from earlier, and the thought makes his heart feel like a heavy stone.

 “You can take my bed,” he says, insists when Grantaire’s eyes widen. “No, Grantaire, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch. I can sleep in Combeferre’s room, and you can have my bed.”

“I can crash in Combeferre’s bed,” Grantaire protest. “I mean, if it’s okay with him, which I’m pretty sure it is. I’ve slept in it before. I’m not kicking you out of your own bedroom, Enjolras.”

“No, really, it’s fine, I… _when have you slept in Combeferre’s bed?!”_

Grantaire startles at the tone of Enjolras’ voice, and he even flinches a little himself, _fuck,_ he hadn’t meant it to come out like that, but his thoughts had suddenly turned to some of the possibilities as to why Grantaire would find himself in Combeferre’s bed, and the sharp spike of emotions that had fluttered through him had been extremely unpleasant: he’d found himself unable not to ask.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, barely audible. Grantaire smiles, and there is absolutely no joy in it.

“Surprised that Combeferre would be with someone like me?”

Enjolras goes pale, both at the confirmation of his current worst fears and the voice Grantaire uses, the expectation that anyone would react like this at the thought of Grantaire with someone the man deemed better than himself.

He was beginning to realise that there wasn’t many people Grantaire _wouldn’t_ deem better than himself. The thought makes him want to punch something.

“We didn’t do anything,” Grantaire says then, and Enjolras is ashamed of the relief he feels. “I got drunk, Combeferre took me here so I was safe, let me crash. I threw up on his floor, which I won’t be doing this time, so I’m sure he doesn’t mind me sleeping in there: I’ll even clean up after myself tomorrow,” he turns around and walks out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know the way.”

 _No_ , Enjolras thinks. _No, you don’t._

He wakes up the next day so late that it’s almost midday, and has a brief panic before he realises that it’s Saturday and he has nowhere to be, except for the Musain tonight. He’s awake now, having slept much longer into the day than he usually ever would, but he still feels wrecked, somehow.

The events of the last few hours come back to him, and Enjolras rolls around with a groan, burying his face in the pillow.

_Fuck._

Enjolras hates sleeping in, absolutely loathes it, because so much of the day is lost and he’ll be too tired to be productive, but right now all he wants to do is close his eyes and go back to sleep, because in sleep he won’t have to think about how soft Grantaire’s features had been, fast asleep in his kitchen, how broken he’d sounded, how his hand had felt in his, how soft his hair was. Sleep was oblivion, at least for a few more hours, and it was ridiculous to think that he’d magically have the answers when he awoke again, but he could try.

His attempts are interrupted by low singing however, coming from the kitchen. It’s not a song he recognises, words barely audible through the rooms, but the person singing is definitely Grantaire.

Grantaire who is still here, and apparently awake as well. And in his kitchen. Singing.

Singing in his kitchen.

Enjolras ignores his heart leaping in his chest, and slowly rolls out of bed, putting on his clothes and almost running into the bathroom: even in here, he can hear the faint melodies of Grantaire’s voice, and after last night he should possibly be bothered by it, but he isn’t, at all, _fuck_ , but he isn’t, he’s just standing here and wants it to never stop.

The reflection in the mirror shows that he’s a little pale, and his hair is ruffled and wild, but otherwise he doesn’t look like someone who was awake for thirty hours worrying about his friend _(friend, ha)_ and then made them tea and argued with them, and had to listen to them put themselves down like it was every-day business.

It probably is.

For all that he knows, intellectually, theoretically, that Grantaire has issues and demons he doesn’t want to talk about, actually seeing them for himself is a whole different ballgame. It’s like getting a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over him, and he isn’t sure how to react at all.

But Grantaire is here, he realises, the song going a little higher for the chorus before dropping again, the clang of pans and cutlery breaking over it now and again. _Grantaire is here._

He washes quickly and doesn’t let himself spent too long in the bathroom freaking out in general just because _Grantaire is here_ , and then quickly walks to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway when he gets there.

Grantaire is still humming as he pours egg from the pan over unto a plate, moving to clean it off as well: his clothes are slightly rumpled, the same from yesterday of course, since he’s one of the few of their friends who doesn’t have spare clothes basically everywhere, and Grantaire isn’t about to lend any of Combeferre’s clothes since they’re all too long for him.

Enjolras’s clothes would be too long for him as well, he thinks, and Grantaire’s shoulder and hips are broader than his but…

He lets the thought and pleasant images ebb away, because this really isn’t the time, and much as he’d like to stay here and stare at Grantaire, so at home _in his kitchen_ , it probably isn’t very productive to anything except his overactive imagination. So he clears his throat, and feels slightly sheepish when Grantaire almost drops the glass he’d just retrieved from the cupboard.

“You’re awake!” he exclaims upon seeing him: he looks like a little kid whose been caught with his hand in the cookie-jar, and Enjolras can’t stop himself from smiling softly at him.

“You were singing?” he finds himself saying, and it’s a silly question because its stating the obvious, and possibly also the reason why Grantaire hadn’t heard him get up or approach the kitchen at all.

And then Grantaire blushes, and Enjolras smiles even wider, warmth spreading in his chest.

“Yeah, uh. It was Danny Schmidt. I’ve had the song stuck in my head for days, but… yeah, um, sorry if it woke you.”

“It didn’t,” Enjolras assures him, though he isn’t actually sure about that. He thinks he won’t mind waking up to it more. Like every day.  Won’t mind if Grantaire wakes him up in the middle of the night singing to him softly. “You’re a very good singer.”

Grantaire lets out a startled laugh. “Well, thanks. Not exactly sure if I’m going to take that compliment from someone who has a dubious taste in music at best.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Listening to various forms of music that seems appropriate in the moment is not ‘dubious’. And _you_ like Taylor Swift.”

“Taylor Swift is awesome,” Grantaire states, clearly more at ease now – Enjolras did that. He thinks he wants to stand in his kitchen and argue about music with Grantaire for the rest of his life. He could do that. He’d want that.

“Um, right, I, uh… I made breakfast,” he says then, hand gesturing towards the food on the counter. “As a sort of, um, apology for last night.”

“You don’t have to apologise for anything.”

“Well,” Grantaire says, clearly disagreeing (as usual). “I made you breakfast anyway.”

Enjolras finally walks properly into the kitchen, stopping a few inches away from Grantaire, whose leaning against the counter and looking like a mouse about to be trapped by a very large cat: although, Enjolras thinks, maybe not half as frightened as that.

“Thanks,” he says, and Grantaire blushes again – Enjolras tries not to be too gleeful about that, tries to remind himself that he’s disorientated and has to figure out his own feelings, that Grantaire is even more vulnerable than he is right now and…

He’s leaned down and pressed his lips against Grantaire’s before the thought is even done, and its soft and warm and wonderful, and also how Grantaire ends up running away from him at top speed for the second time this week.

 

 


	2. Part II

 

He doesn’t expect to see Grantaire at the meeting in the evening, but he is there nonetheless, and Enjolras heart almost stops when he sees him, and then it starts beating again, wildly, before lodging itself permanently in his throat.

Grantaire doesn’t even look at him.

He’s been thinking about the kiss since it happened, which was all day long: he’d been thinking about it while eating the breakfast Grantaire had made. He’d been thinking about it while contemplating running after him, try to explain, try to do anything, really. He’d been thinking about it when he’d been staring at his phone, wanting to call Grantaire and explain, _apologise_ , and the realisation that that was something he needed to do, had left a hollow feeling in his chest for the rest of the day.

_Fuck_. He’d kissed Grantaire. Months of fantasies and heartbroken wishes coming true, and he’d _screwed it up_.

An hour before he had to leave, the memory of the kiss had started burning: he should have asked. Should have been given Grantaire’s consent first, he shouldn’t have just kissed him, _clearly_ Grantaire didn’t want it, and Enjolras would have rather never, ever had the memory of the soft brush of lips, than knowing for the rest of his life that he had kissed Grantaire when the other man didn’t want it.

It was still burning when he arrived at the meeting, but as it turns out, just seeing Grantaire brings out elation in him as well.

Grantaire still doesn’t look at him. At all. He spends the entire meeting speaking with Bossuet, speaking and _laughing_ , and Enjolras feels like he’s rolled out of bed this morning and stepped into a parallel universe, one where Grantaire is in his kitchen in the morning, where Grantaire breathes the same air as him from the very start of the day, but also one where he blinks and Grantaire is _ignoring him_.

Unfortunately, the universe where Grantaire was cooking him breakfast, but is now ignoring him because Enjolras went ahead and kissed him like the biggest fool in the world, is not at all parallel: it’s the one he has to live in now.

He needs to apologise. He needs to write Grantaire a thousand letters explaining how what he did was wrong, and he’s really sorry about it, he needs to _explain_ , needs to reassure him that this doesn’t have to change anything, that he knows Grantaire doesn’t like him that way, but they can go on, he can ignore it, he won’t push his feelings on Grantaire again like that, because he knows it’s not okay, _it won’t happen again I promise_.

“You’re staring,” Feuilly tells him, quietly – Enjolras cannot help but think that he’s being quieter than Courfeyrac would have been, and he’s thankful. “And you’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” he tells his friend, perhaps a bit too quickly, because Feuilly looks at him with doubt in his eyes. Feuilly usually doesn’t pry, but Enjolras must look really out of it, because he shifts closer and lowers his voice.

“If there is anything I can do…” he trails off, and Enjolras nods. “Did something happen?”

“Kind of,” he admits, because being honest with Feuilly is like being honest with yourself, and several psychologists and life-philosophers agrees that that is a very healthy thing. “But it’s… I’ll get it sorted.”

“Is it about Grantaire?”

He stares at him in shock. “How did you know?”

“Well,” Feuilly shifts a little in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “He usually just… I mean, he’s currently not looking at you, he hasn’t all meeting, at all, not even once, and that’s… unusual.”

“It’s unusual.” He supposes it is: Grantaire enjoys picking his arguments apart, but doing that meant he had to pay attention to Enjolras. Of course it would be unusual that he was suddenly ignoring Enjolras completely during the whole meeting, and of course the others would notice.

He suddenly has a sinking feeling of dread at the thought that Grantaire might have told some of the others about the kiss: he knows Jehan and Grantaire share a lot, that Éponine knows more about Grantaire than possibly the man himself does, knows that Bahorel is one of the easiest people to talk to, despite appearances. Knows that Musichetta is a good listener. What would he have said? Would any of them be angry with him? He quickly comforts himself with the thought that his friends would all approach him with it, if they had become involved in the issue – they respect him enough to do that, he knows, and the only reason their mismatched group had managed to hold together for this long, was because there was a sense of complete honesty between them.

“He just usually pays a lot of attention to you, that’s all,” Feuilly says as if dismissing it, but Enjolras feels a swoop of excitement go all the way through him at those words: it’s not news, he tells himself. It’s not really even positive attention, most of the time. It’s Grantaire being Grantaire, and of course his best friends would notice it when he was acting different from what he used to, especially in a regard where his behaviour was usually so consistent.

“I’ll get it sorted,” he repeats, mostly to himself.

He’ll fix this.

He will.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he tells Courfeyrac exactly one hour later, the meeting over and done with for the day: Courfeyrac had trailed with him back to his flat, out of worry or because he just wanted to hang out, Enjolras had no idea: of course, Courfeyrac didn’t need a reason to spend time with him, but Enjolras wasn’t so oblivious as to miss his friend paying a little more attention to his mood than he usually did. Which was a lot, considering how mindful Courfeyrac always tried to be of everyone that he cared about.

“Fix what, exactly?” Courfeyrac’s voice is soft and soothing, as if Enjolras is a wild animal that he doesn’t mean to startle. “I thought you said you’d talked it out with Grantaire? Didn’t he stay here last night?”

There’s a hint of something more in Courfeyrac’s voice, and Enjolras stubbornly ignores it: Courfeyrac thinks of something much different than what actually happened, and Enjolras still feels sick at the thought of what he did.

“I screwed up,” he whispers, because he needs to tell someone anyway, and Courfeyrac has experience, Courfeyrac knows Grantaire, Courfeyrac is possibly the only person right now that can help him.

Courfeyrac frowns. “What?”

“I screwed up.”

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“I kissed Grantaire,” he’s been building up courage to say the words, to admit them out loud when it can’t be in joy, when he can’t tell Courfeyrac about a date or just an afternoon spent together, when he can’t tell Courfeyrac that _he kissed me back_. No, it has to be like this instead, his first (and only) kiss with Grantaire has to be a shameful, whispered secret, because _he fucked up._

_“What?”_

“I kissed Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, a bit louder this time, because it needs out, doesn’t it. Surely there’s something, somewhere, on getting the truth out, and feeling all the better for it.

He still feels like his insides have been run over with a train and then thrown right back in, expected to function.

“You kissed Grantaire?” Courfeyrac’s shock melts away to be replaced by a huge grin. “You kissed Grantaire! This is amazing!”

“No it’s not.” Courfeyrac’s enthusiasm makes this whole thing so much worse: Courfeyrac knew of his feelings, how deep they ran, and now he’d also know exactly how much to pity Enjolras, and if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was someone else’s pity.

He frowns. “You said you… screwed it up?”

“I screwed it up really, really badly.”

“So you’re… not a very good kisser?”

Enjolras’s eyes widens. “What? No, that’s not it!”

“Oh! Good!”

“I’m not a bad kisser!”

“I didn’t say you were,” Courfeyrac hastens to assure him. Enjolras suddenly feels even more wrong-footed.

“Do you think… maybe I was a bad kisser?” Oh god, was that why Grantaire had run?

“NO! No, Enjolras, I’m sure you’re a fine kisser, I haven’t really thought about it that much to be honest, I… tell me what happened? So I can make some sense of this?”

“Right,” he forces himself to stop the panicked mantra in his head, the thoughts at the forefront wondering if he really is a bad kisser, he only has little experience, knows that Grantaire must have more, oh god, was Grantaire comparing him to the others, and even worse, had he found him lacking?!

“I just kissed him,” he says, drawing the words out. “I’m… and then he ran away.”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows almost hits the ceiling. “He _ran away_?”

“Yes, he ran away.”

“He ran away?”

“Right out the door.”

“So you really are a terrible kisser then?”

Enjolras emits a pained sound and drops his head on the table. “ _Gods above.”_

“Sorry! I’m just… why the hell…” he keeps muttering to himself, and Enjolras largely ignores him for a good few minutes, until his head starts to really hurt and he feels like he has to lift it again, if nothing else so that Courfeyrac can inspect the surely huge bruise on his forehead now.

“He just ran away?” Courfeyrac repeats when their eyes meet.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t explain, didn’t say anything?”

“He walked right out of that door behind you,” Enjolras grits his teeth to keep the emotions at bay. “Didn’t even look back.”

“And you’re _sure_ all you did was kiss him?”

This time he does his best to think back, to remember the situation, what they’d been talking about, the smell of eggs cooking, Grantaire humming quietly and looking so at home in Enjolras’s living-space. The memory, he finds, makes him as happy as it makes him hate himself even more, but that knowledge doesn’t get him any further: he just feels guilty that the thought of that kiss is something good for him, when it clearly wasn’t for Grantaire.

“All I did was kiss him,” he says.

“And before that?”

“I’d just woken up,” he bites out, and Courfeyrac gives him a searching look: he sighs. “Okay, I mean, obviously when he came over the night before he was… he’d been missing, Courf, he was in a bad place. And there was some tension and maybe some yelling, I don’t think we can be in the same room for long without yelling at each other, but… we sorted it out.” _We didn’t. Grantaire confessed that he hated himself, and that he thought I hated him, and all I did was cart him off to go to sleep._ “It was fine.”

“I’m not asking you to spill Grantaire’s secrets,” Courfeyrac suddenly says, and Enjolras almost wants to cringe, because how can this man seem to read his thoughts? He’s pretty sure Courfeyrac is a mutant and just hasn’t told the others.

“I know.”

“What he told you in confidence isn’t something I mean to pry into.”

“Courfeyrac, I know.”

“I’m just trying to help you, and yeah, it’s difficult when I don’t have all the pieces to the puzzle, but I just… I hope my advice is worth something?”

Enjolras tilts his head to the side as he looks at his friend. “Your advice is always worth something.”

“Thank-you.”

“I just… I want him to be happy.”

“Even if it isn’t with you?”

Enjolras flinches at that, but nods without hesitation. Of course. _Of course._

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says then, and it’s almost a question. “Grantaire… you know…” he stops himself almost abruptly, staring out the window and searching for words. “I just… he’s not…” he sighs in frustration.

“He’s not, what?”

“He’s not… I know you and Combeferre have already talked about this, but: he doesn’t hate you.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Hate is a strong word to use.”

“No, that’s not…” Courfeyrac stops himself again, which seems to be taking a lot of willpower. “He’s… you know he gets insecure, yeah?”

“Insecure is a mild word to use.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Courfeyrac mutters. “How did he describe it? He doesn’t call it and illness, you know, he says its strays, like the homeless cats you take in and feed, and they scratch you deep when you try to pet them, but you also won’t stop feeding them, because they’re still living creatures and you feel like you owe them, except in this scenario the cats are actually soul-sucking monsters, and this is the point where Grantaire will laugh and says that he knows this, anyone knows this, but they feed the cat anyway.”

Enjolras stares. “That’s… very Grantaire.”

“That’s what I told him,” he sighs and pushes listlessly to his cup with one finger. “What I’m trying to say is that he isn’t… what you might think.”

Enjolras shifts uncomfortably now, reminded of some of the things Grantaire had brought up just the night before, things not unlike what Courfeyrac is saying now.

“You’re making it sound like the person I’m in love with doesn’t exist.”

“He does,” Courfeyrac says, without hesitation. “He very much does. It’s just that… Grantaire doesn’t… think that person exists, really. If that makes any sense.”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I still don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Just talk to him.”

“I tried that.”

“No, you kissed him.”

“We talked before that!” Enjolras snaps, feeling defensive. It wasn’t like he hadn’t _tried_. It wasn’t like he’d just jumped Grantaire as soon as he had seen him in his flat. He wasn’t like that.

“I mean you have to tell him how you really feel,” Courfeyrac says, completely calm, as if he hadn’t just asked Enjolras to do the equivalent of jumping into a volcano. He feels light-headed just at the thought, and not in the good way.

“I can’t do that.”

“I mean, just… you don’t have to go all-out and say you want to marry him and that you’ll never leave him and that when he smiles the music of angels and the light of the sun comes upon you, or anything like that.”

Enjolras has to battle a smile. “Is that from one of the poems you wrote to Marius?”

“I just… _oh shut up, you!”_

He laughs, and it feels freeing, even when the weight of it all is still settled in his chest: at least his best friends can still make him laugh. He really needs to stop being so miserable, over one little thing: okay, so it might not be ‘little’ exactly, but he does no-one, least of all himself, any good when he’s just sitting here moping.

“I’ll have you know he liked those poems,” Courfeyrac mutters, feigning insult.

“Of course he’d tell you that, you have sex with him.”

“Thomas Bartholomew Enjolras!”

“That’s… that’s not even my real name.”

“How dare you speak as such to one of your elders!”

“You’re five days older than me, Courfeyrac.”

“The filth out of your mouth!”

He laughs. “Stop.”

Courfeyrac giggles and takes a sip of his tea. “You’re fun to tease. You get very deadpan.”

“I’ve been told.”

“It’s the same when people are flirting with you, although often I think you don’t even realise that you’re being flirted with.”

“People don’t flirt with me.”

“And there it is!”

Enjolras blinks. “What?”

Courfeyrac just smiles, soft and gentle this time. “You have to talk to Grantaire.”

“Yeah.”

“As in, really talk.”

“You might need to lock us in a cupboard together.”

“Oh Heavens above, you do have a filthy mind!”

“Courfeyrac!”

He’s pretty sure he’s gone completely red in the face as Courfeyrac’s laughter just grows even louder, but he just sits back and lets the sound of it wash over him. Listening to it, he feels normal and sure for the first time since this morning.

He regrets not telling Courfeyrac and Combeferre about it all sooner: maybe it would have been easier. There’d have been a lot more teasing, also, but maybe, just maybe, they would have stopped him before he’d screwed everything up so badly.

He later regrets not rehearsing this with them at least a thousand times, before the attempt is made.

“I need to talk to you,” he says to Grantaire the next day, standing in the garage Feuilly works at: he’d been helping out there again, since Simoné had gotten sick as well, and couldn’t attend to her post. Feuilly had sent him a very knowing look as soon as he’d stepped in, and Enjolras wondered how much exactly he knew – who had Grantaire told about the kiss?

He wouldn’t mind, certainly, if his friends knew: he was more concerned about what Grantaire thought, how he’d phrased it. Or maybe he’d been too traumatised by the whole event to relay it to anyone else?

Oh god, he was working himself into a frenzy already, and he hadn’t even apologised yet.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, and his voice is distracted, but there is a definite look of uncertainty in his eyes as they flicker up to him, and then back to his work. “Give me two seconds?”

Enjolras steps back a little to allow him more room to work, and it isn’t until then that he realises that Grantaire is only clad in jeans and a black wife-beater, clinging tightly to his skin where sweat and motor-grease has made it slightly damp: his curls seem even wilder today as well, the ones just at the nape of his neck clinging to each other like intertwined lovers, brushing the skin there with what must be incredible softness.

He’s going to have trouble making that apology, or saying anything at all really, because his mouth has gone very, very dry.

Grantaire finishes with his work, and stands up, slowly taking off his stained gloves, and _fuck_ , Enjolras wonders if he’s making a show of it on purpose, slowly revealing pale fingers just to tease him.

And then Grantaire stretches and arches his back, and Enjolras realises that he’s all sharp angles and long, strong arms, and yeah, if it isn’t Grantaire, there’s definitely someone else out there having it out for him right now.

“Hi,” is all he can get out when Grantaire finally turns around to address him. He looks surprised, and then slightly amused, but his face is blank and his shoulders are tense. He looks defensive: as if he’s afraid of Enjolras.

Enjolras has never wanted to punch himself this badly before, and he has truly had his moments, to be perfectly honest.

“Hello,” he reaches up a hand to push a few curls away from his eyes. “You wanted to talk?”

“Um… somewhere more private?” he’s not doing this with an audience: he can hardly even do it with Grantaire there, and he’s the one he has to apologise to. The urge to just call, or even send a text had been overwhelming, but Enjolras knows he needs to do this face to face, that he owes Grantaire this much.

The thought that maybe Grantaire would have preferred a call, that he doesn’t want to see him at all, only comes to him now, and _fuck_ , he really wishes he’d contemplated that sooner, because it surely isn’t going to help this mess of a situation at all.

“Let me just…” Grantaire says, and before Enjolras can move, there’s a bare arm brushing past the sleeve of his jacket, and Enjolras can feel the heat from Grantaire’s skin even through his own layers, and Grantaire is _so fucking close, he is going to faint._

“My shirt,” Grantaire says, as way of explanation, drawing back now that he’s gotten the item: he quickly puts it on, and even though it’s only a t-shirt that hardly covers a lot, he still finds himself somehow resenting it a bit, and then he realises he is being petulant towards a t-shirt featuring a faded print of Calvin and Hobbes, and he feels absolutely ridiculous.

This really has to stop.

He mentally yells at himself as Grantaire leads him out in the hallway, and into a vacant office, the sun streaming in through the open window.

“Marjorie shouldn’t be back until later,” Grantaire says, referring to Feuilly’s boss. “She won’t mind us using this. So,” he shifts, hands tucked deep in his pockets. “Um. Spill?”

“Right,” having no idea what to do with his hands, he ends up folding his arms over his chest instead, hoping it doesn’t make him look… angry, or something like that. Body language is important. He’d taken classes on it, even, because things like those could be vital when you were talking to people: reading their signals, and conveying your own right back. But all of that goes to waste with Grantaire, who is like a book written in French, except all of the words don’t seem to mean what Enjolras has been taught that they do. “I’m… I came here to… I wanted to apologise.”

Grantaire lifts his chin a little at that. “You wanted to apologise?”

“Yes. For… what happened. Yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mean to kiss you,” the words spill out now that he’s started. “I _really_ didn’t mean to, and I am so very sorry that I did.”

Grantaire stares at him. “Okay.”

Enjolras stares right back, and has no idea what to say. He’s apologised now, right? Had he expected Grantaire to huff and tell him to leave him alone, never to speak to him again? Had he expected Grantaire to call him a fool and kiss him right then and there?

“I’m really sorry,” he repeats, and Grantaire’s expression turns even more to stone than he already thought it had.

“It’s okay,” it doesn’t sound like Grantaire saying it, but it is Grantaire’s voice. “Apology accepted.”

And then, just like the day before, he walks out of the door without another backwards glance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He hates me,”

Combeferre sighs. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Enjolras digs his spoon aggressively into the still really hard-frozen ice-cream. “He really, really hates me.”

“You’re stupid,” Cosette tells him, and pulls a spoon out of the water she’s boiled to hand to him. “Try this.”

The warmth from it makes digging through the cold sustenance a lot easier: he scoops it up and squints at it.

“I’m not,” he says. “What is this?”

“Ice-cream,” Combeferre tells him: he’s already eaten more than Enjolras thought was humanly possible.

“Yes, but what kind?”

“Pistachio and chocolate,” the girl beside him says.

“That’s weird.”

Cosette glares at him. “Eat your damn ice-cream, Thomas Bartholomew.”

“That’s not my real name,” he sighs, but dutifully takes a bite. It really is weird, but not as bad as he’d feared.

“It is a brilliant name, though,” Cosette says. “What’s even more brilliant is the fact that Grantaire doesn’t hate you.”

“Hate might be the wrong word,” Enjolras mutters. “There’s always loathes, despises.”

_“Oh my god!”_ Cosette drops her spoon to dig her hands into her closed eyes, as if she’s in great pain. “Combeferre, I can’t do this.”

“Well, I can’t do this alone,” Combeferre says tiredly, and Enjolras would feel insulted except if it had been anyone else, he’d have probably punched them out and told them to get over it by now, so really, his friends are being exceptionally patient. He loves them for that. “And you also had the ice-cream.”

“Ice-cream only goes so far.”

“That’s why I lured you here with alcohol and pizza as well,” Combeferre says with a completely straight face, and Enjolras wonders how someone so kind and good and gentle can also be so devious.

“I’m not just moping,” he tells them, as Cosette reaches for the bottle of wine, apparently sure that this particular year goes exceptionally well with pistachio and chocolate ice-cream. And veggie pizza. “I mean, I am moping, but I’m also in very severe pain. I actually think a few of my toes are broken.”

“Because you kicked a steel-door,” Cosette’s voice is bland. “Tell me again how smart that was?”

“I was frustrated,” he says, pointing his spoon at her. “Did I _mention_ how he just…”

“... just walked right out,” Combeferre finishes the sentence. “Enjolras… what did you expect him to do?”

Enjolras has to think for a second. “Well… _not that_.”

“You expected that you would talk and sort out all of your problems,” Cosette says, something almost like anger in her voice. “And then you’d become better and better friends, and eventually that would lead to cuddling and smooching and you’d finally have the man of your dreams.”

He stares at her for a good long while, before turning to Combeferre. “Why is she here again?”

Combeferre licks his spoon clean. “She had ice-cream.”

“I hate you a little bit.”

“You keep saying that word,” Cosette tells him. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

“Well,” Enjolras presses his palms flat against the table. “Since you’re such an expert, why don’t you tell me, then?”

She stops short at that, eyes flickering to Combeferre who only stares right back.

“I’m not completely blind you know,” he hisses. “I know there’s something you guys are not telling me – Courfeyrac kept tripping over his own words. I say stuff and people give me these strange looks. So what is it?”

“We’re not keeping secrets from you,” Combeferre says then, voice calm. “We would never do that.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, because he does know, and it isn’t really that: he trusts his friends. He doesn’t think they walk around keeping things from him out of spite or anything like that. They’re not backstabbing him or talking behind his back. “You’re keeping something from me, because you think I’ll be hurt if I hear it.”

“No,” Cosette says, the words slowly. “It’s because it’s not really our place to tell you.”

He stares at her dully, and something in his head feels like it shifts right into place. “It’s something about Grantaire, then.”

“I will say it again,” Combeferre mutters. “You need to talk to him. _Really_ talk. I know that it’s a difficult concept, that you might have to own up to your feelings for him, but… oh my god, you’ve gone white as a sheet! What’s wrong?”

Enjolras can hear his heart beating out of control. “He’s not… Grantaire’s not dying, right?”

Cosette snorts into her wine, and Combeferre blinks in surprise.

“… no.”

“You would… you would tell me if…”

“Grantaire is fine,” Combeferre reassures, in that way that can make any angry person shut right up, can soothe crying children to sleep and possibly stop hurricanes. Enjolras instantly feels better, but he does push his plate a little bit away, feeling slightly queasy after the sudden realisation.

“This is unbelievable,” Cosette mutters then. “We’re subtle as hell, and you notice something’s going on, but _Grantaire…_ ”

“I’ll take away your wine if you can’t hold your tongue,” Combeferre warns, and Cosette glares, but then moves her fingers over her lips like she’s closing a zipper. “Good.”

“I don’t know what to say to him,” Enjolras says then, feeling like he’s going to keel over any minute, or like he needs to get up, get out of this chair, out of the flat, and run ten thousand miles until he stops feeling like there’s a shadow closing in on him, coming from nowhere and all sides at once. “I never know. And then when I do, I somehow manage to say something that hurts him, that makes it all worse. He was in so much pain last night, when he came here, and I wanted to just take it all away from him, and I couldn’t and I have never been so frustrated in my life. I don’t know what to do when I’m powerless, I’m not able to accept it, and I think I get angry at him, for making me feel like that. So I just… react to whatever I feel. I’m not level-headed. I’m thirteen and blacking out again, waking up with blood on my hands because apparently I broke someone else’s nose. And it’s not his fault, he doesn’t even do anything, it’s me.”

Combeferre looks sad. “That’s why you need to talk to him.”

“I don’t know how,” Enjolras repeats, not in a protest, but in a tired mass of words, on the edge of the abyss named ‘giving up’. “I don’t want to talk to him if I’m making everything worse. I’d rather stay away, then.”

“You really do love him,” Cosette says, as if she’d somehow doubted it before, and that thought hits Enjolras right where it hurts, and it lingers. “Enjolras… you’re not making it worse. But if you’re really so worried that you are, why don’t you ask him?”

“Ask him?”

“It doesn’t have to be what you’re always thinking of, what has you panicking so much,” she explains. “You care about him. You’re worried. And you’d want to know if you were doing something that actively made his life harder. I’m not saying he’d be very responsive, because he’s Grantaire and he’s pretty much unresponsive on all the days that end in –y but… you’d be talking. And you need that. You both need that.”

“So you want me to ask him about his… strays?”

“What?”

“Sorry,” Enjolras mumbles. “Courfeyrac likes strange metaphors. I’m… I want to. That’s exactly what I want to do, I want it to be… I wish I could ask him a question like a normal person and he could be comfortable enough saying that he didn’t want to talk about it, and he could be honest with me if he did want to, instead of running away from me at top-speed. But I look at him, and… and I can’t.”

“You know,” Combeferre seems busy inspecting the label on the bottle Cosette has brought. “One of the wonders of modern technology is that you don’t _have_ to look at him while you’re talking. Believe me, my son, you won’t even have to be _in the same room.”_

Enjolras lips twitch in a smile. “Are you drunk?”

“This bottle isn’t empty yet,” he informs him, peering into it. Cosette takes it from him and hands Enjolras his phone in the same move – he has about five seconds to wonder why the hell she has it, what the hell she did with it, what the hell _she saw on it,_ before she’s pushed him into the hallway and closed the door to the kitchen very firmly.

He stands completely still for ten seconds, listening to the quiet scrape of chairs against the floor, and something like a half-whisper, and then a shushing sound.

“You’re listening in,” he tells the door very sternly. It gets suspiciously quiet on the other side. “You’re awful, both of you.”

He steps a little further into the hallway, away from the kitchen, and presses in Grantaire’s number before he can allow himself to chicken out.

It calls once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

Five times.

Isn’t there something about it going six times, and then you can be almost completely sure that no-one is going to pick it up? What’s he supposed to do if Grantaire doesn’t pick it up?

What’s he supposed to do if Grantaire _does_ pick it up?

“’Ello?” his voice is thick and distant, as if he’d been sleeping just before picking up, and Enjolras glances at the clock: it’s hardly even midnight. But maybe Grantaire was tired after a long day at the garage, lifting heavy things and using his hands so much, and sweating and…

Is it getting warm in the hallway?

“Grantaire,” he says, and there’s a small sound on the other end and then a rustling and Grantaire mutters _‘fuck’_. “Sorry, did I call at a bad time?”

“No,” Grantaire says. “Yes. Kinda. I was sleeping.”

“I’m really sorry that I woke you.” Fucking Cosette and her bright ideas.

“’S okay,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras chest immediately floods with warmth as his brain thinks _yes, yes it is_. “Did you want anything?”

_Oh god, yes._

“I just…” _Needed to hear your voice. Wanted to know how you were. Wanted to talk to you. Was bullied into this by the scariest lady in town. No, not Éponine._ “When I said I wanted to talk, earlier today,” he begins, still feeling uncertain, but he’s been called a magician with words before, so he should be able to summon them from nothing. “I didn’t just want to apologise.”

“Oh?” he imagines that the note in Grantaire’s voice is one of hope. Like Grantaire had been hoping he would call, would talk to him more, would confess to something. Anything.

“I wanted to tell you…” what? What did he want to tell him? Was he building up the courage to a love-declaration?

If this was one of those movies that Courfeyrac and Bahorel and Cosette loved so much and seemed to watch every Friday or so (and that seemed marketed mainly to people like Cosette, but Enjolras didn’t care much either way), he knows this is what would happen now: he’d tell Grantaire that he loved him in a fit of courage, and it would bear or break. Either way, this would be in the clear. His feelings would be out in the open. He might actually be able to sleep at night.

He wasn’t going to ambush Grantaire with his feelings right after they’d had such a raw and intense argument, right after everything had seemed too close and too personal. He wasn’t going to tell Grantaire that he loved him, not now when he was slowly inching closer to the realisation that Grantaire thought he hardly even liked him.

It would be an absolutely foolish thing to do, not to mention extremely unfair to Grantaire.

“I wanted you to know,” he tries again, and suddenly feels the words fitting his tongue right again. “That I consider you a very good friend, and if there is anything you should ever need, all you have to do is ask. I would do anything for you.”

The silence from the other end of the line is so deep Enjolras thinks it must be turning into a supernova soon, but he waits it out, clutching hard at his phone.

“Oh,” Grantaire finally breathes, and Enjolras wants to catch the sound and keep it on his nightstand. “I’m… thank-you. I don’t know how… thank-you.”

“Grantaire,” he says. “I mean it.”

“I’m… I don’t think you would lie.”

“And I’m not delusional. When I say ‘anything’…”

“You got a pretty good preview to the mess that is me earlier,” Grantaire interrupts, and sounds mocking, and it hurts because it isn’t Enjolras he’s mocking, not at all. “I know that you… that you mean what you’re saying.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. Um. Good.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me,” Enjolras explains. “I don’t want you to be worried that I’m going to kiss you again, or anything like that. I’m not… trying to lure you into a false sense of security so that I can… ambush you like that again.”

“’Ambush me’,” Grantaire repeats, and Enjolras realises he’s laughing slightly. “I’m… what does that even mean?”

“I shouldn’t have just kissed you like that,” the words slip out with no prior permission, and he wants to bite his tongue off as soon as they’ve left to make their way in the world. Grantaire’s stopped laughing. “I should have… I don’t know what I should have done, but I realise that you’re not going to be… comfortable around me, after I did that. It was not okay of me.”

The silence stretches out. Enjolras is pretty sure he sees his entire life flash before his eyes.

“Thank-you,” Grantaire says then, and it isn’t like earlier when he’d said it, it’s soft and low and almost _happy_ , and Enjolras feels like bursting into song, and he usually hates to sing. “No-one’s ever… apologised for kissing me before.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen. “Oh god… I didn’t mean to make it sound like… I’m not saying you’re a bad kisser! You’re a very good kisser you were… Oh _god,_ now I sound like a creep, don’t I?”

Grantaire splutters on the other end, and it takes a while for Enjolras to realise that he’s laughing again.

“For fucks sake,” he mutters, and it only makes Grantaire laugh harder.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again. “I’m pretty sure I got dropped on the head as a child.”

“Explains a lot,” Grantaire gets out through his giggling, and Enjolras can imagine him now, the bright light in his eyes, the dimple in his right cheek, the way he slants his lips when he’s trying to keep back a smile, the way his teeth catch the insides of his lips lightly when he’s trying to make himself stop laughing again, when it gets too much and he just can’t stop. Grantaire must have taken a shower after getting home from the garage, and maybe his hair is still slightly wet, the curls heavy and even darker (impossibly dark), falling into his wide eyes and touching the soft skin on his neck, making a trail that Enjolras fiercely wishes he could follow with his fingers and his mouth.

_I love you,_ he thinks, and he has to clamp his jaws shut tight to keep the words from slipping out. They would appear too easily now, with the sound of Grantaire’s laughter in his ears.

There’s a noise of something – or _someone_ – falling to the floor inside the kitchen, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“I have to go,” he says. “But we’ll… we can take more later, yeah?”

“We can talk,” Grantaire says. “I, for one, learned it at a young age.”

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.”

Grantaire laughs again, and tells him _‘later’_ , and then hangs up. When Enjolras comes back to the kitchen, it looks like there’s been a small fire in the sink, Cosette has spilled wine on herself and Combeferre is holding an icepack to his head, but Enjolras keeps smiling for the rest of the night, even as he’s forced to clean up after the two of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“That’s completely preposterous,” Grantaire is clearly agitated, waving his arms in the air. “You are _never_ going to get that many people to care about taking down and industry that’s an everyday part of their lives, not to mention a good investment. At least not for long enough to even make a difference.”

Enjolras grits his teeth. “And how exactly do you know that? Thousands of people have been moved to action before.”

“Sure they have,” Grantaire leans forwards in his chair and only just manages to not knock over one of the bottles on the table: he’s closer now, and Enjolras can’t help his eyes flickering down to his lips as his tongue flickers over them. His eyes are gleaming, almost dull after drinking a bit, but his tongue is sharp as ever, and Enjolras’s heart is beating wildly in his chest. “But there’s a definite line that has to be crossed. People can put up with a lot, and 80% of people don’t even care about animal welfare. How many of them have flushed out their goldfish when it got too boring?”

He wants to sigh, but he’s pretty sure he ends up smiling slightly at the metaphor. “Flushing out a goldfish isn’t quite the same as millions of animals suffering daily for nothing but human pleasure.”

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “It’s the same difference. You can’t even make people care enough to quit when its actual human children being exploited by the industries, because the industries are too big a part of society. It’s about comfort, and people are too un-imaginative to think of alternatives. And they get prissy when you tell them what to do – oh, I can’t eat meat now? You’re taking away my freedom!”

“It’s not about that,” Combeferre breaks in, voice soft and low compared to the two other’s. “It’s about communication and knowing what’s really going on. It’s both saving animals being mistreated, and making sure that people actually know what they’re eating. Countless diseases and health problems are the fault of the meat industry and the liberties they are allowed to take, and people willingly close their eyes to it, because it doesn’t benefit the media to go against powerful industries that help make the money and can potentially sue them if they don’t like what’s being said.”

“But that’s my point exactly!” Grantaire yells, and throws out an arm, nearly catching Bossuet in the face with the gesture. He apologises quickly, and then turns back to Combeferre – he is looking at Enjolras though, as he speaks. “If you don’t have media backing, it’s not ever going to work. You can yell all you want, but no-one is going to hear you – or at least not enough people are going to hear you. It’s fucking advertisement, and you need too many factors in that. Even the things you have going for you, like the fact that you’re all young and pretty hot,” Bossuet snorts into his beer and Combeferre’s lips quirk slightly, while Joly all-out laughs at that. “Is negated by people who will say you’re too young to be taken seriously, or that not everyone can afford an alternative to the way they already buy their food.”

“But that’s another issue,” Enjolras interrupts. “Food isn’t necessarily more or less expensive depending on its quality, and another problem is that the meat industry is producing too much meat. How much left-over food is there going to be? How much of the food used to feed animals whose meat just goes to waste anyway, could be directly processed to us instead? People don’t know these things.”

“It is, again, a bit preposterous to assume that everyone wants to live on grain.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Implied words.”

“That’s not how it works.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and Enjolras fiercely ignores the stabbing sensation in his heart. _Take me seriously, please._

“People are going to do that,” he tells him. “People are going to hiss and throw fits because you’re telling them they can’t eat what they want to eat, what they’ve always eaten. They’re going to play the strawman and jump to wild conclusions and put meanings to your words that you don’t intend, because it’s not just pointing at one offender, like that mink-farm where the evidence of mistreatment were clear and people had an actual face to put to blame, what you’re doing is pointing your finger at an abstract concept that’s completely integrated in our society, a system that people uses daily, and they’re going to think that the finger is pointed as much at them as at the people doing the actual mistreatment, because _they’re part of it_ , and they’re going to vilify you and turn against you, because people can’t handle being criticized and they can’t handle being told what to do.”

“And that means we should just not do it?” Enjolras is pretty aware that he’s yelling as well now, but its par for the course, and not even the bartender flinches anymore. “If people don’t like being shaken when they’re doing shitty things, maybe that just means we’ve got to shake harder.”

“Yeah, that’s going to work so well. Have fun with the lawsuits.”

“I’m not saying I’m going to snap my fingers and people will nod and agree, it’s a process, and it’s going to take time, but if we give them that time and yeah, do the fucking advertisement and spread the actual facts and make people realise, then they will see.”

“And even if they won’t, at least they’ve made an informed choice,” Courfeyrac cuts in now, leaning against the back of his chair. “That’s part of the problem as well. We’re not just trying to take action against the cruelty happening in industries like these, it’s also about the fact that people are completely oblivious to them.”

“The information is out there,” Grantaire cuts in. “It’s just not on the every day news, and it’s not presented in simple words they can Google. And when looking up information is not easier than falling asleep, people don’t want to do it. People are too lazy and arrogant and self-involved to want to care if it takes too much effort. Sure they can donate a penny or a pound, but ask them to sacrifice more money or time, or even maybe their own safety and they’re going to slam that door right in your face. People are fucking bastards.”

“And you would know so well,” Enjolras hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to battle the headache that’s forming. It takes him a few more seconds to realise that it’s gone completely quiet around him. When he looks up again, Courfeyrac is grimacing, Combeferre is staring at him with wide eyes, and Grantaire’s face is completely shut off, like a mask of steel has slipped over his features and locked it all away.

“I didn’t…” he starts, stammers, somehow gets out, because _fuck_ , what did that sound like. “I just meant that… you have… you know people.”

What he’d meant was that scars and bruises and nightmares too often were a true testimony to the kind of people Grantaire had encountered in his life. What he’d meant was that… that he found it amazing Grantaire was only _this_ cynical after everything he’d seen and experienced. What he meant was that when Grantaire spoke like this it was maddening and irritating, but also helpful, because Grantaire knew people – people as in everyday puttering around the house-people, not the wild crowds he knew how to enchant – better than he did, and the words spilling from his mouth were both fears that had already set their roots deep within him, and obstacles that he needed to be fully aware of if he ever hoped to have a chance of achieving anything.

Grantaire shrugs then, and his eyes are _cold_ , and that’s not right, because there’s always a spark in Grantaire’s eyes, even at his lowest it somehow still prevails. Enjolras wants to search for it again, but Grantaire diverts his eyes from his, and that hurts more than anything else.

“I guess I am being a bit redundant,” he says then. “You know your mind, and you know what you need to do. I’m sure you’ve been over all the variables in this equation.”

He hasn’t. He can’t, not on his own, because the equation is a whole world of different cultures and people and societies, and he can’t not care about them all in some way, and he’s long found that he can’t stop being angry, and if he can’t stop being angry he might as well put it to some use, but as much as the anger is a tool, sharp and wielded with practice, it is also at times like a veil over his eyes, obscuring things that should be obvious, and that’s why Combeferre is there, calm and steady, its why Courfeyrac is beside him, ready to calm him down and remind him that not everyone thinks like he does, it’s why they’re _all there_ , each and every one of them in their beauties and flaws and its why Grantaire is there, to remind him that there’s going to be someone who will mock his every thought and rip apart every word from his mouth, and he’s going to love him anyway, to the point where he thinks he’s going to die from it.

It should be impossible to feel this much, he thinks. It shouldn’t be allowed. It cannot be healthy.

“I’m sorry,” he says and feels awkward and foolish, but at least Grantaire’s eyes quickly fall back to him, before he looks away and gets up from his chair, dragging Jehan behind him up to the bar.

_I’m so sorry._

It is pretty easy to lose each other in a big crowd like this, but at least Enjolras has his height as an advantage, and so does Bahorel, the only one of them taller than he is, and that means that Enjolras is looking for long, dark hair and a face with a scarred eyebrow and potentially a scowl right now, because Joly had been knocked to the ground and the guy who’d done it had escaped before Bahorel could get a hold of him, which means Bahorel is pissed, and could potentially be heard from miles away.

Except, Enjolras _still can’t fucking see him._

A shoulder bumps into his, and someone is pressing against his side, and he’s turning around to either ask the person to go away or help someone whose being crushed by the mass of bodies, but his eyes catch deep blue ones, and Grantaire grins at him widely, blood on his chin, but looking fine otherwise.

“So this went a bit out of hand,” he says, smirking at Enjolras as if they’re sharing a private joke, and his heart is expanding at least three sizes in his chest, this really cannot be good at all.

“Mark arranged the rally. That should have been enough for us to stay away,” he deadpans, and it really should, because Mark and his group has a terrible tendency to take things over board at all times, and not just the times when there was need of it _(and yes, Combeferre, of course there was need of it when Enjolras did it, stop questioning it, extreme measures could be necessary!),_ which explained the current situation of panic and police sirens in the air. And Grantaire pressed flush against his side, which Enjolras thinks is almost worth going to this disaster of an event for, because Grantaire hasn’t been this close to him since that disastrous night and morning that Enjolras is _not_ going to think about right now, and the air between them has been kind of cool for a few days after Enjolras word-vomited all over the place, but Grantaire is warm now, and did he mention pressed flush against him?

“We need to find the others,” Grantaire says, standing on his tip-toes to scan the crowd, and even then the top of his curly head still only just brushes Enjolras’ chin, because Grantaire is adorably short, and really, he just thought the word ‘adorable’ in the middle of a rally gone wrong, clearly he did not get his proper dose of coffee in the morning, or maybe he drank too much. He really can’t be focusing on how cute Grantaire is when they’re in potential danger.

“Bossuet!” Grantaire says then, apparently spotting the man in question, and he rips himself away from Enjolras and starts running through the crowd, almost effortlessly, like the thick mass of people running in all directions aren’t even there, weaving in and out and Enjolras is left standing there gaping and then following at a slower pace, because fuck, people apparently really like to bump into him, and it isn’t until he raises his voice and yells at some huge guy in a leather-jacket to _move it or regret it,_ that he actually gets somewhere.

And that’s when the first blow hits him in the stomach and he doubles over, gasping for air, hands and knees scraping against the pavement. There’s screaming and the air is misty, foggy even, and someone running collides with him, falls to the ground and gets up quickly, not even looking back, and it happens again and Enjolras head hits the pavement with a sound that he thinks probably isn’t healthy: it vibrates through his skull and makes his ears rattle, and he can feel something warm and sticky sliding down the side of his face, and he _needs to get up,_ or get fucking trampled by fucking panicking people, but he can’t, he doesn’t even know what up is anymore his head is reeling so much, but then someone grabs his arm and shakes him, and there are more hands, forcing him up and being extremely ungentle, and yeah, that’s his hands being handcuffed behind his back, and standing up really doesn’t do his head any good at all, but he does have enough sense of self to stop himself from spitting the police-officer in front of him in the face, which is tempting, but Combeferre is going to kill him if he does.

He ends up in a holding cell, and since he’s pretty sure he’s got a concussion, he keeps himself awake by boring his nails into the scrapes and cuts on his palms and making the hole in his jeans even bigger by tearing at the thread, repeating mantras and hurts in his head, because it’ll only be so long before someone either comes to get him or the police has to take him to a hospital, and if they refuse in the long run at least they’re going to be in a lot of trouble if he falls asleep and they can’t wake him up again, and the thought of that is kind of gleeful, but also, he really doesn’t want to die.

He especially, he realises, doesn’t want to die before he’s explained a few more things to Grantaire: there’s nothing like getting a concussion to make you realise that you not only wanted to apologise, but also explain that fuck, hey Grantaire, you’re amazing and extremely talented, and intimidatingly smart and attractive as hell and you have paint right under your ear almost all the time, red too often, sometimes green, often gold, it’s been a blue and white stripe once, and when you smile your lips quirk just _so_ right before and it’s both irritating and kind of hot when your hair falls into your eyes and you can’t be bothered to brush it away again, and I realise that someone like you doesn’t have much time for an idealistic and overtly optimistic school-boy, but I’ll be content if you’ll just look at me and smile, just once in a while, _fuck I’m really sorry, I fucked up._

“Someone’s here for you kiddo,” a deep voice interrupts his litany of thoughts, and Enjolras jerks out of his half-asleep state and follows the officer out, doing his best not to stumble and grimace.

“Oh fucking hell,” Combeferre says when he sees him, and Enjolras is pretty sure that his teeth are bloodied as well, so he makes sure to show them off when he grins at him. Combeferre just rolls his eyes.

Even though Combeferre and Joly between them are completely capable and equipped to patch him up themselves at home, Combeferre still insists on driving him to the hospital just in case, but for once the ride there is quiet, none of Combeferre’s disapproving comments, and even Enjolras stops complaining about doctors and nurses and check-ups pretty quickly: apparently the rest had managed to not get arrested, courtesy of Cosette arriving and stuffing them all in her car, and the fact that Grantaire had seen Enjolras being dragged away, so they at least knew where he was.

“You fucking scared us,” Combeferre mumbles, once the doctor leaves the room for a minute: he’s pale, Enjolras realises now.

“I’m okay. Come on, I’ve been through worse.”

“Usually I’ve been right beside you for that,” Combeferre hisses now, hands clenched. “Usually I’ve seen the damage and know what was up, but I had to haul Grantaire away because he was this close to punching the officer that came at you first, and he looked completely wild and told me that you’d been covered in blood, and we didn’t even know where they’d dragged you off to, I’ve been to two other places before this one, Enjolras, we didn’t know where they’d called in the forces from, and Grantaire wouldn’t stop shaking and not even Jehan could calm him down and…” he stops himself abruptly, and looks both sheepish and angry at himself, but Enjolras hardly registers, because all he can hear is his own heart beating too fast and he’s sure he’s gone even paler than when his head collided with the ground.

“Where is he now?” he asks, and Combeferre folds his arms over his chest, the way he’s done since he was little and felt defensive.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I had to come get you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Enjolras says automatically, because Combeferre is still his closest friend, and he knows that, if he could, Combeferre would protect them all with everything he had, but not even he can be everywhere at once, and sometimes there had to be priorities taken: but rational, logical thoughts does not stop the burning that is spreading through his veins, and he is acutely aware that he doesn’t know where Grantaire is and he doesn’t know what he might be doing.

He doesn’t know what Grantaire might be capable of doing to himself, if shaken enough.

But he has a pretty good imagination.

The doctor comes in to interrupt it, however, and since it turns out he doesn’t have a concussion or any other major head-injuries, he’s free to go. They’ve hardly made it outside before he turns to Combeferre with a stony expression, and as he is so wont to do, Combeferre reads his mind.  

“I’ll call Jehan,” he says, digging out his phone and handing Enjolras his own as well. “You get Musichetta first, then call Bahorel if Jehan isn’t with him.”

Enjolras presses in the number without thinking, trying to shut down his thoughts, because if he thinks about this too much he might not be able to function.

Musichetta doesn’t know where he is, and neither does Jehan or Courfeyrac or Marius. Éponine doesn’t pick up, and sends him a text five minutes later explaining that she’s taking care of a sick Azelma, but he should try Cosette. It isn’t until he gets her dad on the phone that he gets some answers though.

“He’s here,” Valjean says, and Enjolras can feel his whole body turn light in relief, even if it only lasts for a second, because Valjean’s voice is not happy. “I think you should come.”

“Is he okay?” he asks, and feels dizzy still. There’s a rustling, and Cosette is on the other end again.

“I think he needs someone to be here, and I think it should be you,” she says then, and Enjolras can’t help the elation he feels at that, but also, _what?_

“Are you sure?” yes, Éponine was occupied, but usually Cosette would have been enough and otherwise Jehan or Bossuet or Combeferre, Bahorel or Feuilly or Joly, even Marius, and definitely Courfeyrac all came before him in the people Grantaire would want to see in whatever state he might be in.

He tries not to remind himself that Grantaire had deliberately sought him out last time. It didn’t end well.

“He asked for you,” Cosette says, and there absolutely isn’t a choice whether or not he’s going after that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I found him dead-drunk at Crosby’s,” are Cosette’s greeting words when she opens the door for him. Her eyes widen. “Shit, you look a mess!”

“Thanks,” he tells her, but he lets her pull him into a quick hug.

“Say if there’s anything you need,” she mutters, drawing away again. “He’s in the guest bedroom.”

“Passed out?”

“Close to. I don’t think he can sleep.”

“You didn’t give him anything?”

“I tried to, but he refused. He’s taut like a wire. He said… he kept saying…” she stops herself, eyes searching his face. “I think he was really worried about you.”

Enjolras swallows heavily and follows her into the guest-room: Grantaire is sitting on the bed, back against the wall its pushed up against – the lights are turned off and the blinds drawn against the moonshine and sharp lights of Paris city at night, but the small TV in there is turned on, an animated cartoon catching flickering colours over his features. There’s a mug of quickly cooling tea on the nightstand next to a tall glass of untouched water, and Grantaire is wrapped in a blanket and looks pale.

He looks up then, and Enjolras thinks he is forever going to remember the moment when their eyes meet, because something comes alive within Grantaire’s, and, though he is still pale, colour blossoms in his cheeks anyway and his lips part slightly at the sight of him. Enjolras hardly even register Cosette slipping out and closing the door behind them, because he cannot keep his eyes off Grantaire.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and Grantaire’s eyes widen, and then he smiles and Enjolras’s heart melts.

“I should be asking you that,” he says, and the smile is gone again. Enjolras draws closer, almost involuntarily, and sits down on the bed next to him, just at the edge.

“Can I?” he asks. Grantaire can have no possible clue as to what he’s asking, but he nods in answer anyway, and Enjolras scoots up until he’s sitting with his back against the wall as well, turned slightly to the side so he can see Grantaire better, their knees touching where Enjolras is stretching his out slightly. It’s an unconscious impulse to do it, but a completely conscious choice to let it stay like that, unless or until Grantaire pushes him away, because he suddenly needs any form of contact between them, even one as small and seemingly insignificant as this. Through the layer of clothes and the blankets over his legs, he can still feel the warmth pressing into him. He immediately feels calmer than he has in the last few hours. The last few days, even.

“I’m okay,” he says then, because Grantaire had technically asked, and if the others are to be believed, that’s why he’s currently here. His hair is damp, and Enjolras thinks Cosette must have made him take a shower, but he still smells faintly like whiskey and cigarette smoke, and Enjolras remembers Jehan once telling him that Grantaire only drinks whiskey when he’s really far gone. His hand curls into a loose fist, resting on the sheet between them, but he doesn’t reach out like he wants to. He’s scared of startling Grantaire, if he does. Scared of crossing boundaries that he’s already smashed once, and scared that they might not be able to rebuild them again, ever.

Grantaire still doesn’t say anything, only stares at the TV and Enjolras finds the silence maddening, suddenly.

“I didn’t know you’d worry so much,” he says, and smiles, tries for… what, a joke? It isn’t funny. He didn’t think Grantaire would care enough to be like… this. He’s still all out of sorts. And Enjolras has assured him that he’s okay now.

“You are so fucking stupid,” Grantaire hisses at him then, and Enjolras startles.

“What?”

“You are a fucking fool, and you’re oblivious and I can’t figure out if it’s on purpose or if you were dropped on the head as a child. Actually you _told me_ you’d been dropped on the head as a child, and I’m inclined to believe it’s true.”

“What the hell?!”

“You’re such a fucking bastard,” Grantaire continues, still not looking at him. “You are so fucking nice to me, and then you show me how you really feel, and it hurts, and I think, why do I even bother? It would be so fucking easy to just leave, hell, I _want to_ leave, and when you tell me I’m worthless then it’s nothing compared to the days where I have to see you lying bleeding on the ground and I can’t do anything to stop it, and it’s my fault to begin with because I fucking just left you there when I could have stayed with you, but I am too fucking useless to even take care of you in a situation where I can usually keep a clear head, and you were fucking _bleeding and I didn’t know if you were okay!”_ He hiccups slightly and sounds hysteric, but then he stops and clearly calms himself down, or at least outwardly does so. Enjolras stares and has no idea what to say, how to address even one of the myriad of things that he’s just been told.

“I… it wasn’t your fault.”

“I left you.”

“Grantaire,” he says, voice gaining the authority it’s so used to holding. “It’s not your fault. I’m not your responsibility.”

Grantaire stares into the distance, almost sullen. “I wish you were.”

“ _What?”_

“I love you,” Grantaire tells him, and he’s drunk, Enjolras thinks, _he’s drunk, he’s drunk, he’s dead on his feet, he doesn’t know what he’s saying._ “And I wish you knew. I guess now you do.”

He wants to say _what_ again, wants to demand an explanation, wants to repeat words of question until he gets a proper answer, but that’s unfair, because the answer has just been presented to him, hasn’t it?

He feels like his brain has been hot-wired, and he can’t think, and this does not compute with any of his observations, except it kind of does, doesn’t it?

Because suddenly, a lot of things make sense in a new light, but no, Grantaire is drunk and…

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire’s voice interrupts his internal meltdown. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He doesn’t sound as self-reproaching as he usually does. Merely stating the facts. He seems… comfortable almost. Comfortable about his feelings like he only is when he’s drunk.

But no, Enjolras can’t afford to think like that. Grantaire is drunk and emotionally all over the place, and he can’t hold him responsible for what he says in such a vulnerable situation. He’s just… he can’t think.

“I love you too,” he says, and Grantaire snorts and laughs, and it might be the flicker of the TV, but for a short moment Enjolras thinks he’s crying. He wipes at his face and it’s gone, but his eyes are too large in the dark either way.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras says, words stumbling out, trying to find a band-aid that fits this wound, he needs to fix this, needs to do something, anything. Is there an aspirin for a pain like this? “I’m so… fuck, no, please don’t cry.”

Grantaire blinks away tears. “I’m not crying.”

“If you cry _I’m_ going to start crying.”

He laughs at that, a genuine laugh this time, and Enjolras feels like he can breathe again, at least.

“I mean it, you know,” Grantaire says then. “You’re so naïve and optimistic I want to gag, and you get offended so easily and you have awful taste in music for the most part and you once insulted my favourite Dicksee painting and I wanted to steal it just so I could hit you with it, and most days I’m pretty sure you’re only tolerating me because we have so many mutual friends, but when you smile the whole world stops and every single moment of my life where I wish I was dead is worth it just for the chance of meeting you.”

“Fuck,” is all Enjolras says, because he doesn’t know what to do with Grantaire being brutally honest like that, doesn’t know where to put the band-aid now, because wounds keep appearing and all he can do is try to keep his head above murky water and hope he doesn’t gets pulled under.

“I can be positive, you know,” Grantaire continues. “I can… I do enjoy quite a few things. And I love my friends. And I’ve had experiences I wouldn’t trade for anything. And I’ve laughed and loved my whole life, and you’re still the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You have to stop,” Enjolras tells him, because he doesn’t know what to say or how to react, and Grantaire immediately clamps his mouth shut and stares into the distance with a frightened expression. Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s done or what to do, and all he can think is, _you asked for me, and I’m here._

He desperately wishes that could be enough.

But it isn’t, and he needs to figure something else out. He _has to_ , because he can’t sit here and let Grantaire be in pain about this, he can’t.

“Tell me what you want,” he pleads. “Anything.”

Grantaire’s laugh is a mocking sound. “You already think me pathetic enough.”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he says, and knows it falls on deaf ears. “Please. Tell me.”

“What do you think I want?”

“Can I kiss you?” he’s been told once that answering a question with another question is impolite. He doesn’t really care right now.

Grantaire’s eyes widen, but he still doesn’t look at him. “You made that mistake once already.”

“It was a mistake because I thought you didn’t want it.”

“I told you you’re a fool.”

He resists the urge to lean closer. “Is that a yes?”

“Fucking hell, you can’t just…” Grantaire stops and lowers his voice: he’s shaking slightly now, but he looks more alive than he has since Enjolras entered the room. “Why the fuck do you just have to…”

“You told me how you feel, and I told you how I feel,” Enjolras interrupts him, and feels almost clear-headed, but most of all determined. “And now I’m telling you what I want, and you can say no or ask me to leave or say yes and ask me to leave, and I won’t hold it against you because I’m putting the decision in your hands and I…” his words run out. _I just want you to be happy._

“I’d do anything for you,” he’s said those words before, he thinks, in some form. They feel raw and open now.

Grantaire kisses him, this time, and that’s far better than a verbal answer, he thinks, hand reaching up to let his fingers card through the curls at the nape of his neck. Grantaire tastes like almonds and smoke and fear, and when he pulls away for air he hesitates and _looks_ afraid as well, and Enjolras kisses the soft skin under his eyes and his nose and at the corner of his mouth before finding his lips again, and Grantaire still isn’t touching him even when Enjolras pulls him closer, but he whimpers and sighs and lets Enjolras deepen the kiss.

And then he pulls away, and Enjolras blinks his way out of his haze and lets him go, and feels like he’s losing a limb.

“How long?”

“What?”

“Did you think you loved me after you kissed me?” Grantaire asks, and his lips are red and his eyes still shining with tears. “The first time?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Answer the question, Enjolras.”

He can’t gather his thoughts. “Does it matter?”

Grantaire can get angry, he knows, but it isn’t often that he gets _really_ angry. The expression on his face now says that he’s very close.

“Of course it fucking matters,” he yells. “You fucking _dick_ , I’ve been in love with you since a month after I met you, and that’s fucking years of agony and then you suddenly just kiss me and act like it was a huge mistake and like you hate that you did it, and then you come _here_ and you tell me that you love me and then you turn it upside down again and you’re always like that, one minute you smile and say something to me that makes me feel like I can do absolutely anything, and the next you’re sneering and I know that you secretly hate me so much you can barely stand it, and I don’t know what _the hell_ this is, and you’re sliding around my questions like they don’t matter.”

Enjolras can feel the blood drain from his face. “I make you feel like you don’t matter?”

“ _You are such a fucking douchebag.”_

He winces slightly. “I… I’m sorry.”

All the fight leaves Grantaire’s face just like that, and he looks pale and drawn and almost unreal, like an old painting of someone with their foot in the grave, wanting to immortalise their features before there isn’t anything left to put in ink.

“I didn’t know,” Enjolras says, slowly and carefully, after the silence has reigned for too long between them. “If I had I would have never… I’ve been confused and scared about my own feelings, and I’ve been doing my best not to take it out on you, but it seems like I’ve failed. And hurting you is the last thing I want to do, ever, so I can only say that I am so, so sorry and I hope that one day, I can even begin to make that up to you.”

Grantaire looks so perplexed and confused. “You…”

“It’s been about a year,” Enjolras continues, when Grantaire doesn’t say anything more than that. “Since I realised I was in love with you. And I should have told you, I realise that now, but I honestly thought you didn’t like me. Almost funny, isn’t it? Or not, I suppose. You put everything I say down like it’s a rapid dog to be shot, and I thought you couldn’t possibly like me one bit when it seemed like the greatest part of your day was tearing down my arguments. And I wanted to hate you back, a little bit, but I couldn’t help but be impressed, because you saw things I couldn’t and you’re brilliant and so smart, and you stayed, and you were there at almost every rally, and you’d mention things I’d said weeks after the fact, and in my mind I thought that meant you’d listened and understood in a way that so few people ever do, and that was… that was amazing, even if you seemed to disagree so much. And I think I’d rather sit and have you tear apart everything I say for the rest of my life, than have a life doing everything else without you.”

He feels shaky and like he’s had too much caffeine, and he feels _light_ and free because he’s said it now, not just in abstract concept spoken to his friends, hushed secrets that he means to keep that way, he’s _confessed_ now, to the person that matters most, and Grantaire is still staring at him like he isn’t even sure he’s real, but he also said that he loved him, said it first even, and Enjolras still isn’t able to stand the silence, so he leans forward and kisses him again, because if Grantaire doesn’t want to say anything then he doesn’t have to, Enjolras won’t require it of him, won’t ask for anything he doesn’t want to give, anything will be enough, he’ll make sure that it is.

He’s pretty sure he sees fireworks exploding behind his eyes when Grantaire kisses him back again, and that’s just extremely corny, but he’s happy and relieved, and he’d all but forgotten what they felt like, but now they’re Grantaire safe and warm beside him, and Grantaire hesitantly reaching out a hand and curling his fingers in the material of his shirt, right above his heart, and it’s in the way when Enjolras pulls him closer again, but Grantaire just grips tighter and Enjolras doesn’t want him to let go at all.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up the next morning with his arms wrapped tightly around Grantaire, his back against his chest, and Cosette shining a lamp into their faces.

“Rise and shine, lovebirds,” she says, and then pulls out her phone to snap a picture, and laughs gleefully as she dances out of Enjolras’s reach and flees the room.

“She’s going to send that picture to every single person we know, isn’t she?” Grantaire’s voice is deep and hoarse from sleep, and it makes Enjolras’s heart loop pleasantly in his chest. He grins down at him, propping himself up on his elbows in the small bed.

“Well, they’ve gotta find out that you’re mine sooner or later,” he says, and smiles softly when Grantaire’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And that I’m yours.”

Grantaire stares at him, and then reaches forward and hugs him tightly around the middle, face buried in his chest. Enjolras is pretty sure he’s grinning like a huge dork. He reaches up and runs his fingers through Grantaire’s messy curls, and thinks they’re as soft as he’d imagined – softer, even.

“Okay?” he asks, and Grantaire nods against his chest, and Enjolras is fairly certain he’s smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I don't own Les Mis or its character, nor do I own the quote blatantly stolen from 'The Princess Bride' or any other pop culture references that may have appeared in this work. 
> 
> \- This fic was A LOT of fun to write, and it turned out a lot longer than I intended it to - and also a lot angstier, while (hopefully) still keeping the lighter humour that I had intended from the start. I'm really proud of it though
> 
> \- If you're interested in seeing my facecasts for this fic (and most of my Les Mis fics in general) they are on my tumblr [here](http://fiercejolras.tumblr.com/tagged/les-mis-facecast)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYqDq4ojyHg) which is incidentally also the song Grantaire sings in Enjolras's kitchen. Also, what a silly callback to another fic of mine. I'm a dingdong, and I am very sorry (but I just love this song so much)


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